Borrowed Trouble
by Amorisa
Summary: Life had been quiet for Brynjolf and his organization, just the way a man in his line of work preferred it. At least, that was what he'd thought, until the day came when a starved and bleeding Etienne Rarnis stumbled back into Riften raving about the Thalmor - and a woman named Archer who'd saved his life. Part of my "Archer's Paradox" series.
1. The Rat's Return

**Warning**: This story includes spoilers for the main story questline, up to **and** including "Diplomatic Immunity" and "A Cornered Rat", and the beginning of the Thieves Guild questline, "A Chance Arrangement".

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**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter One: The Rat's Return  
**

* * *

The first time Brynjolf heard tell of the woman calling herself Archer, he was in the market, peddling his petty wares.

As was often his luck – which was, unfortunately, none at all – he'd caught the glint in the eye of many a goodwife browsing the stalls that fine afternoon but had sold no vials of his tonic, and no offers or opportunities for more clandestine work had come his way. More than half the day had already slipped by; the other stall-keepers were beginning to grumble, and the guards stared overlong.

It was then that Sapphire had slipped by him, descending out of nowhere like some divine saving grace, to whisper in his ear that the rat Etienne Rarnis had finally returned to Riften, bleeding from a dozen wounds and ranting about the Thalmor – and a woman who'd freed him.

At the time, Brynjolf had given a second thought to neither the woman nor the damned elves. The words _torture_ and _interrogation, _however – aye, those caught his attention, and gave him pause enough to close up shop.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sapphire fading into the crowd as if she'd never come to him. She was a smart lass, but subtlety was an honour he could rarely bestow upon her. She tended to hound after her marks, trying to squeeze every last septim she could. It was risky, and it was sloppy.

Ofttimes, especially nowadays, the fine line between thieving and thuggery was a grey and blurry thing. To some at least, it seemed.

Still, there were other matters at hand to be dealt with.

By the time Brynjolf had made his way down to the Flagon, the half-starved Rarnis was well and truly drunk on the house mead while Vekel leaned over his back, cleaning out the ugly red lashmarks as best he could. The cruel latticework was a decent display of brutality, to be sure, but injuries a man could inflict upon himself – had he wanted to mislead the suspicion of his guildmates, men and women who might just have thought him a coward, a traitor, a rat better off dead with the carrion birds as his only mourners.

It had been close to three weeks since anyone had laid eyes on Etienne Rarnis. He had gone missing during a dubious burglary just outside of Solitude. The job was one of Vex's, and she had made all the arrangements. Glorified legwork.

Days had passed, and then days upon those days. Word on the street was that the house had been hit, and the trinket taken among little else of consequence. Yet no delivery was made to the guild, nor had there been any contact from the layabout mongrel of a Breton who'd disappeared on the job.

By then, it had become abundantly clear, even to the more forgiving folks of their little family, that something had gone awry.

More than two weeks had passed since that black realization. The members of the guild had disavowed all knowledge of Etienne's plan when asked. Tonilia had set her black market sources to finding the trinket, but her enquiries were met with little and less luck with each passing day.

Would that Brynjolf could have expected more, but resources were stretched thin enough as it was, and Mercer had no patience for Vex's small time jobs – nor the bit players who executed them. Etienne Rarnis was deemed a traitor of the guild and the usual threats of death and dismemberment were made over the requisite pints of ale. No more was said of the matter.

Of course, the sudden reappearance of the aforementioned traitor had shattered the uneasy silence. In fact, Rarnis was becoming something of a spectacle, and in their line of work, that was never a good thing. What little business that still took place at the Flagon had ceased all together. People were beginning to gather. Worst of all, the mead had already done its work loosening Etienne's tongue.

"– Just lets loose this bellow and it knocks 'em right off their feet! Never seen the like before, not ever in my life."

As Rarnis gestured drunkenly, he came close to knocking Vekel upside the head with an elbow. The tavernmaster dodged it easily, grumbling as he wiped at the filth and blood that caked Etienne's bare back with an equally filthy and bloody rag. Old wounds, fresh wounds, all of it infected – it would warrant a potion or three, should the guild decide his story true and his hide worth salvaging.

A story Brynjolf still needed to hear.

"– Didn't fall to pieces like they say, though, what do you make of that?" Rarnis slurred, his head beginning to droop. He did not look around to see that another patron had entered the Flagon, though in his sorry state, Brynjolf couldn't say that Rarnis would have been much bothered by his appearance, anyway.

It was Dirge who saw Brynjolf first. He was scowling. "How do you want to handle this?" he asked, shaking his head as he stared hard at the cause of the disturbance.

"Lightly, very lightly," said Brynjolf, still a little uncertain himself of how to approach it. "I want you to secure the Ratway. It wouldn't do to have any unwanted customers stumbling in on this, now would it?"

Nodding, and looking grateful for a task set away from the commotion in the Flagon, Dirge slunk off.

There was no time to be wasted. Brynjolf stepped out of the shadowy stone alcove and sought out Delvin Mallory, who stood leaning against the battered bar, where he had no doubt watched the whole volatile situation unfold with the same bemused expression on his grizzled face as he wore now.

"You didn't think to put a stop to this, old man?" Brynjolf asked.

"Why? It's just getting good."

Brynjolf wasn't fooled. For all the composure and lazy smiles the old thief had, sure as the dawn he was listening intently to every word the drunken rat said in an effort to sort out the meaning behind it all. Truth be told, it was a bit of a relief – if there was any sense to be had in the whole mess, Delvin would be the one to work it out.

"Where's Mercer?" asked Brynjolf, keeping a close eye on Rarnis.

"Had a meet with Maven," Delvin said, crossing his arms over his chest. "There's something going on with Goldenglow what's got her all in a tizzy. He's topside at the Bee 'n Barb right now, trying to smooth things over."

"Wonderful," Brynjolf muttered quietly to himself as he left Delvin's side to do something about the crowd.

Weaving his way around the tables, he touched the shoulders of those he passed, and gave a raised eyebrow or soft direction when required. Most got up and left with little more than a disappointed look on their face and nary a backward glance. Some, however, were less accommodating – Tonilia fired a few choice curses over her shoulder as she walked out, while little Vex outright refused to leave at all.

"I want to know where this rat stashed my goblet," she said, loud enough that her voice chased itself around the suddenly empty Flagon. "I've got a client breathing down my neck for it and _this lush_ won't shut up about –"

"Didn't have time to stash it. Thalmor took it all. Sorry, love," Rarnis said, and saluted Vex with his empty mead bottle.

Brynjolf, ever ready to thwart trouble before it had a chance to start, put a firm hand on Vex's shoulder, just as she gave a threatening lunge toward Rarnis. His grip tightened. She didn't notice.

"Mercer wouldn't mind if I killed him, would he?" she asked, and gave a smile that was both so sweet and so menacing that even Brynjolf found himself wanting to step back. Alas, none of them were to have the pleasure of watching the lithe little blonde pummel the Breton bloody. He gave her shoulder a squeeze that was meant to be comforting, but if her tension relaxed even in the slightest, he could not feel it beneath his fingers.

"Head on into the cistern, lass," he said, and gave her one last nudge before letting her go. "I want you to send Mercer in here the minute he gets back. Tell him what he needs to know."

"Fine," she said, relenting and sorely unhappy about it.

"Don't go to mentioning the missing loot, though," said an eavesdropping Delvin. He glanced over, eyes lingering on Vex as they so often did. "One thing at a time, eh?"

Vex levelled Delvin with a scathing look, and stormed off without another word.

Brynjolf ran a hand down his face, sighing. "Let's get this dealt with then," he said.

"Beauty," said Delvin, still watching after Vex.

Brynjolf pulled up a chair out from the nearest table and set it down in front of Etienne Rarnis. Vekel had finished doing what little he dared for the wounds; no one was going to waste a potion on a man who might be floating at the bottom of the canal come nightfall. But the mead, well – the mead, they had in abundance.

Rarnis leaned back as Brynjolf sat before him, and it was with dismay that Brynjolf realized that Rarnis was not so drunk as he had first assumed. The Breton's eyes were wide and solemn and deeply troubled.

"Nearly twenty days since anyone last laid eyes on you," Brynjolf said, none too gently. Rarnis hung his head with the weight of the information, but Brynjolf had neither the patience nor the sympathy to spare. He had to press. "Where'd they grab you?"

"Just outside Riften, down by the lake," said Etienne. "They were waiting for me. Someone must have tipped them off. They knew I'd be coming back on the south road."

"What would the Thalmor want with the likes of you?" Delvin asked, his mask of impassivity doing a poor job at hiding his true, genuine interest.

"Not after me," Etienne said, and slumped against the back of his chair. He winced, as if he'd just remembered his marked and swollen hide, and shifted his weight to lean back on his shoulder. "They're after some old man. They think he's hiding out in the Ratway."

"They think or they know?" asked a hard voice. Mercer. Brynjolf had neither seen nor heard him come in; the guild master's sudden presence was terribly disquieting "What did you tell them?"

Etienne Rarnis did not shrink or quail beneath the tempered steel of Mercer's displeasure, although it seemed that weeks of suffering at the hands of the Thalmor had done much to dull his sensibilities.

"I told them there are a lot of crazy old men hiding down in the Ratway," said Rarnis, "but they insisted. And then they _insisted_." The mead bottle dropped from his hand, forgotten, and rolled a few feet away. He bent over himself, elbows to his knees and face cradled in his hands, hidden and ashamed. "That was all I told them. It was all I _could _tell them. I swear it, Mercer."

"That doesn't matter now," Mercer said, cold and dismissive. Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, not at the simpering traitor clinging to the shredded remains of his honour, but at his guild master and his casual disregard for their client in the Ratway, for there was no doubting whom the Thalmor were after. Mercer paid no mind to Brynjolf and his eyebrow. "Tell me how you escaped," he pressed Rarnis, who slumped ever lower.

"It's – I don't _know,_ exactly. I heard fighting and thought I was as good as dead, and then _she _comes along, and the _troll_ –" He shuddered, and went quiet.

"_She_," Mercer muttered darkly, and it was no simple query.

Brynjolf glanced over at his guild master. "Problem?"

"I don't know yet," said Mercer, but Brynolf could see that his wheels had already begun to turn, the slow grind of Mercer's thoughts narrowing his eyes and tightening his mouth.

That right there, well - that was a look Brynjolf had come to know well, one he had learned to respect, but in that moment, with the Flagon near to empty and the sight of Etienne Rarnis' bloodied back bared before him, he felt suddenly caged and uneasy, his heart filled with a strange ill-boding, while the wheels in Mercer's head turned on.

"Who was she?" Brynjolf asked Rarnis, as Mercer stood cold and still, lost to thought.

"Don't know, but the wood elf with her called her Archer," said Rarnis, still bent double, and shrinking into himself by the moment. "Pretty thing, and Breton, by the look of her. She was wearing Ulfric's colours."

"That's no business we need to get caught up in," Delvin said dismissively, and Brynjolf had to agree with him. Like it or not, the war was good for their trade, a colourful distraction for their underhanded shadow work. The only way that was able to go on was if they kept out of sight and off the toes of one side or the other.

"It seems that we're already in it," said Mercer with gritty disdain. "Now, to make sure we don't sink any deeper." With a last glance heavy with dark warning, the guild master turned and stalked off toward the cistern, to his desk, to his books, to his thoughts and his solitude, but most importantly, to that coveted list of contacts he kept as close as he kept everything else. Brynjolf was certain he'd see the first guild courier passing through the Flagon within the hour. One sidelong look around the tavern had him wondering if it might even be sooner than that.

Mercer was right; trouble was lurking close, and it could only go badly from that moment on, that much had become painfully certain, and quickly. The sight of Rarnis barely keeping upright and curled into himself in his chair was just a glimpse of what their future held. Or could hold. Fate could be a finicky minx, he'd learned that gem early in life, and Lady Luck had little favour to spare for the likes of him and his guild anymore. Frigid bitch.

Brynjolf knew his troubles were written all too clear on his own face, but no one was paying him any mind at all. Vekel grumbled to himself as he mopped the blood and spit and sick from the floor at Rarnis' feet, and Delvin was watching Rarnis with the same preoccupied expression on his face and thinking – well, Divines only knew what that old man was ever thinking, too cunning and clever by half, with a mug that gave nothing away, but Delvin was the least of his concerns.

"Get him into the cistern," Brynjolf said, breaking the uneasy spell as he gestured to Etienne. "Give him a potion for that infection. Let him sleep the rest off."

"Mercer didn't say –" Vekel began, looking down at the slumped and snoring Rarnis with a distaste only a barkeep could muster.

"He didn't say otherwise, neither, now did he?" Delvin pointed out, winking at Brynjolf as he leaned down to sling Etienne's arm over his shoulder and hefted him to his feet. So easy was it that when Vekel moved to take the unconscious man's other arm, Delvin waved him off. "I've got him. Poor bastard barely weighs more than a wet skeever. Get the door, would you? There's a good lad."

Brynjolf watched wordlessly as the three of them ducked awkwardly into the alcove, and was soon left blessedly alone in the Flagon. Over the years, he'd gotten used to the quiet around the place, but it had never been quite like this before, so empty and lonesome a space that even a single drop of water falling from the rafters to the pool below went up with an echo that sent a chill through his bones. Suddenly tired, he leaned back against the bar, and sighed heavily. He could hear voices carrying over from the cistern, but the excitement stayed on the other side of the door. Perhaps the return of Rarnis would give them all something else to talk about other than their own sorry luck for a few days.

He thought on all that Etienne Rarnis had said, and concentrated little on what he hadn't. He'd heard of the Thalmor nabbing folks, that was hardly news, rebels and ninth-divine gainsayers, but a member of the guild? Until today, Brynjolf would have staked his life on their protections against the Dominion – after all, the guild was in good with Maven, and Maven was in good with the Thalmor. It took care of itself.

Now – well, time would do the telling, wouldn't it? Still, it would be in the guild's best interests to be prepared. There was no knowing these days just how much more they could afford to lose.

By the time Delvin and Vekel returned, the girls close behind, Brynjolf had resolved to worry himself no more about the damned Thalmor until Rarnis had recuperated enough to give a more thorough retelling of his tale. He'd given no more thought to the woman Rarnis had mentioned until Delvin slid onto the stool next to him, slouching in that inconspicuous way he had.

"You hear what Rarnis was saying, about the girl?"

"Pretty," Brynjolf repeated. "One of Ulfric's. Whoever she was, she's no concern of ours."

Delvin shook his head. "I was referring rather to the bit about the shouting."

"Aye, I heard that," Brynjolf said, and smirked. "You think he's gone a bit mad?"

"Don't know," Delvin said, and shrugged. "More trouble, whatever it is. Our cursed luck." He spat on the floor.

Brynjolf laughed at the old thief, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Not cursed, just overlooked," he said, as always just as surprised to find he still believed it.

"Then this one's all on you, my friend," said Delvin to his back as he walked away.

Brynjolf left the Flagon, giving Dirge the all clear when he reached the Ratway. As he headed up into the bright sunlight of what remained of a lovely afternoon, his mind was clouded with worrisome thoughts. The subterranean chill followed him through the gate and up the water-logged wooden stairs to the walkways above. He looked for a moment to the market and all those going on about their daily lives, merchants and patrons both, and the guards who watched over them to see – well, to see whatever it was that they were paid to see.

It was just another beautiful day in the Rift, but it was soured now, Brynjolf realized. He turned away from the market and made his way toward the north gatehouse. Rarnis had made it into the city with nary a peep from the gate sentries, and Maul was nowhere to be seen. If any new faces were to appear on his city's fair streets, well, he needed to make damn sure he was going to hear about it before it was turning their world on its head again.

He'd had his fill of surprises for awhile.


	2. Stranger at the Gates

**Author's Note**: I am so grateful for the warm reception to this story. This chapter weaves in and out of canonical events, as will the rest of the story, but I do so love to play with canon, rearrange it, and make it my own, because if you're like me, you've joined the Thieves Guild numerous times, and have heard it all. Thanks for reading!

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**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter Two: Stranger at the Gate**

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As luck would have it, Brynjolf wouldn't have to wait long before the storm that had followed Etienne Rarnis into Riften finally broke over the city and shook the guild to its very foundations. Before that day, he would never have believed that a single person could cause so much trouble and confusion and chaos, or that one woman could turn everything he'd ever known on its head.

But he was getting ahead of himself.

It was nothing but clear skies that day. The trees were a blaze of autumnal fire in the late afternoon sun, but it was hard to enjoy the beauty when his eyes burned with fatigue as they did. In the three days since Etienne's dramatic return, he'd seen less sleep than a disciple of Dibella with none of the divine benefit to show for it. Aye, and he could sorely do with an ease to his tension, too.

That day, though, as sad and frustrated as it made him, it was business as usual.

Standing in the warm sunshine, dressed in his finest, he idly called out to the citizens that wandered past his stall, but his heart was not in it. Or rather, his mind was not in it, his words a mummer's farce rehearsed to rote, his smile a reflex, his every gesture a dance. And he watched the people as they ignored him, their daily lives unfolding to him with verity and unwitting grace.

He enjoyed the time he spent in the market, there was no denying it, but it was only on rare days such as that one when he had the chance to pull a job for the guild whilst simultaneously keeping an eye on the fair city of Riften to make sure everyone kept on doing what they were expected to. Rare days, indeed.

And Brand-Shei had become something of a problem.

Before heading up to the market, Brynjolf had spent a good deal of the morning with Mercer, weighing the outcomes to putting more pressure onto Brand-Shei. There had been talk from Maven regarding the dark elf and _"raising the general standard of the marketplace". _Besides, Brand-Shei had grown bold of late. On more than one occasion, he had been observed speaking out against the guild and the state of the city with the other shopkeepers around town, with some more publicly than others.

The others, well – there would be time enough for that yet.

Brynjolf was of a mind that Brand-Shei lose his prime location in the market proper, reduced to keeping shop out of a cart on the outskirts as the butcher did, but Mercer's intentions were far more sinister. He was determined that the looming threat of Thalmor attention not stop the guild from conducting their affairs, and it appeared that the elf was to be the first order of business – that largely being, to put him _out _of it.

Truth be told – because even a thief had to be honest with himself once in a while – Brynjolf was glad of it. Not the plan involving the elf; in that matter, he had no personal stake and cared little one way or the other what happened. No, the prospect of life moving on from the discontent that Etienne's disappearance had caused, and the unrest that had followed in the wake of his return. Brynjolf was not the only one in the guild hall sleeping lightly, dagger always close at hand. All around him, his guildmates were jumping at shadows.

There was no such thing as peace in his line of work; it was a luxury he'd long since forgotten. But _predictability,_ oh but that was a coveted thing.

And so in an attempt to bring their lives and livelihoods back to calm waters once again, Brynjolf spent his afternoon keeping a close watch on the proprietor of foreign curios in the market plaza, whilst sorting out the finer details of Mercer's initial plan in his head.

Hours passed, and the sun made its slow arc across the sky. The patrons came and went, and their coin with them. Little Ingun Black-Briar stopped by his stand to enquire after his elixirs. She uncorked a bottle to sniff at the contents, made a face, and asked a slew of absurd questions, while he smirked and made his own ridiculous claims of their potency.

It was all for show, of course, but the girl was getting quite good at it and Brynjolf had come to enjoy her visits. Ingun supplied him with his elixirs herself, failed but harmless creations all, and in return, he paid her well for the deceit – and the alchemical ingredients she went through mixing the stuff up by the barrel. Though she was a Black-Briar, and therefore likely to be spying on him for Maven, Ingun had become one of his most solid and reliable business arrangements.

By the Eight, but was that a sad state of affairs.

His day was not made better by the appearance of Sapphire, her nose wrinkled and her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the stone wall near his stand.

"Can I help you?" he asked, putting down the spindle-necked bottle he had been holding. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but the glass seemed to be growing warmer from within.

"You've got trouble," she said, forgoing all attempts at a courteous greeting.

"Aye, it always seems that way," he said, picking up a bottle that had been sitting in the shade beneath the awning. It was as warm as the one he'd been holding in the sunlight. Frowning, he replaced it and turned to Sapphire, who still stared at him expectantly. "Do you remember what I told you about time and place, lass?"

"A traveller arrived at the north gate," Sapphire said regardless, though she managed enough good grace to lower her voice. "A woman. Stormcloak colours, but she's no Stormcloak."

"Oh, and you can tell this on sight now, can you?" he asked, a furtive glance toward the inn and the gate beyond revealing nothing out of the ordinary, and no new faces. "The guards didn't stop her, then? What about Maul?" Brynjolf was depending on the thief-turned-mercenary, and had been forced to trade favours for the help. Detestable, but necessary.

If there was one thing that Brynjolf could not abide, it was a debt owed. His new arrangement was only a single sign of his determination to protect the guild.

"Maul is the one who asked me to warn you about her," Sapphire said, and her words brought him a small measure of relief. "He said she was asking questions."

"Warn me, is it? Is she dangerous, then?" Brynjolf said, and chuckled. "Well, questions we can handle, so long as we are the ones who are asked." He meant for that to be the end of it, but she lingered. He sighed. "Is there something else, lass?"

"Mercer sent me to help you," she said, giving her shoulders a dismissive shrug, a plain indication that she had little enthusiasm for the job or what it could mean for the guild. And in his experience, disinterest led to sloppy handling. And _distraction_, well – in their chosen calling, it could be a valuable asset, or it could very well lead down the road to ruin. "He said you needed an extra pair of hands," she elaborated as he took his time appraising her attitude.

"Aye, I do at that, but not today," he said, going easy on the girl because Delvin had a soft spot for her, even for all her snap judgements and misdirected fury. "Now then, what else can you tell me about our strange new friend?"

She rolled her eyes, a telltale sign that their visitor was a pretty one. "Breton. Short with dark hair," Sapphire said, her voice taking on that faintly scornful undertone she had. She shrugged again. "She took a room at the Bee and Barb, I think, but I know nothing else for certain."

"Well, I'd best keep my eyes open then," he said, trying to keep his hopes firmly in check. All around him, pieces had begun to fall into place, but he'd been at this too long to allow himself to be fooled into action before the time was ripe. Too often, coincidence went around masquerading as luck, a tease of good fortune that had led many a plan astray.

As he watched Sapphire walk away, Brynjolf couldn't help but feel that his last chance to play it safe had just passed him by. A dire notion, surely, and one he tried to ignore as he packed up his stall early, and left the market.

There was a story that he needed to hear from a certain mercenary at the gate.

* * *

...

* * *

Hours later, Brynjolf arrived at the Bee and Barb, his curiosity sated and his interests piqued. Maul had proven more than informative, a pleasant change of pace with all things considered, and Brynjolf was armed with enough knowledge and bolstered spirits to feel confident as he leaned back against the wall in the great room of the inn to wait for his mark.

He looked around to the evening crowd, familiar faces one and all. He listened. He knew their stories by heart, the ones they shared after a gruelling day or too much mead, knew them well enough to tell the stories himself, had he ever wanted to try on their lives for a spell.

It didn't suit him, though, that honest life with all its false privacy and hidden vices. A hard one, that lesson, one learned with pain and guilt and bitter tears. He had _tried_ once, Lady Mara herself knew he had tried, but that mess was behind him now, and the years since had taught him much and more about himself and the world around him. No, he was more than content to watch now, and listen, and keep his life his own.

It was just easier that way.

His musing went on at length, as it tended to do while he waited for his opportunity to happen along. He had often prided himself on his patience, his ability to wait and savour that sweet anticipation that keened the senses and set the blood to thrumming. That night was no exception. When finally his mark came down the stairs, he thought he was more than ready for whatever he might be faced with.

In the end, what he found was that he didn't mind being wrong, when the truth was far more promising than he'd ever dared dream.

The young woman who had charmed her way past his men at the gate turned out to be a thin wisp of a thing with a story in her every step. There was a proper upbringing in the straightness of her shoulders, stubbornness bred into the set of her chin. But that pretty, round face was restive, and there was a deep wariness in those wide, green eyes. She wore no armour, but a simple blue dress instead, the cut daring but the stitching crooked, and he realized that whatever moneyed childhood he sensed was already long behind her.

This one would be a challenge, for even in the crowded great room she seemed apart, distant; he guessed her to be shy by nature and careful by choice – but in his experience, there was only one sure way to find that out for certain, and many other things that might have lurked beneath her fair surface.

She had taken no notice of him, for she seemed herself to be looking for someone. Distraction, that fatal flaw. It gave him the chance to slip up behind her. He reached out, and touched gently upon her shoulder, this stranger whom he already knew so much about.

"Running a little light in the pockets, lass?"

She startled, and turned away from his touch. "I'm sorry," she said, almost immediately dismissing him – but then those pale eyes met his, and she took a moment to study his face. The thought of this young thing taking _his _measure caused him to smile, a gesture she returned after a moment, if the soft curve at the corner of her mouth could be called a true smile.

"I'm sorry, what?" she repeated, blinking up at him with none of the innocence and vulnerability he might expect of one such as her. Instead, he saw a spark he hadn't seen in anyone for a long time, a spark of wildness and of wonder, a trick of the light and the play of lovely shadow, and against every better judgement he had, he decided that a little recklessness never hurt now and again, and went chasing after it.

For the good of the guild, or something like that.

"Your pockets are a little low on coin." He raised an appraising eyebrow. "I can tell."

Her smile faltered a little, uncertain. "How could you –"

"It's all about sizing up your mark, lass," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest, looking her up and down. "The way they walk. What they're wearing." He leaned into her, close enough to see the flush creeping into her cheeks. "A dead giveaway."

She let loose a sigh, one that quivered upon her lips. "You must be Brynjolf," she said, her eyes clear as she fixed them on his, and he chuckled.

"You have me at a disadvantage," he said, thoroughly enjoying it.

She only nodded. "I'm looking for someone hiding in Riften," she said. "A friend said you could help me."

"So you have no name, but does this friend?"

Her flush deepened, and she glanced around helplessly. No one in the inn was paying them any mind at all. Every single person there knew better than that.

"Delphine sent me," she finally said, this time purposefully denying him her name. For the moment, it was no matter – the one she'd given was proof on its own that her business was important enough to warrant his time and cooperation. And he would have given it, gladly, were she only a little more yielding, and not cold as an ice wraith.

"Delphine," he said fondly, a little surprised. "I haven't seen her in ten years. How is that old girl?"

"Demanding," she said begrudgingly, and he laughed again. "Can you help me or not?"

He looked down at this girl, near to a head shorter than he was. Delphine knew how his games were played, and had done nothing to warn the girl of what she might face when faced with _him_ – and besides, he could see that spark in her eyes growing brighter the more he challenged her, and he wanted to put that fire to the test.

"There's no such thing as free information in my line of work, lass," he said gravely. She glared up at him, her flush draining away to leave her cheeks pale and stained, and he would have paid a good deal of coin to know what wicked thoughts twisted through her mind just then. "I'll tell you what," he said with an air of generosity, for it was true he did not usually make a habit of breaking the rules for pretty faces, but she did not need to know that. "Help me deal with business first, and then we'll see how I can help you."

She fell silent a moment, looking first up to him, and then around the inn as if weighing her options, when he was almost dead certain she had none, save him. There was another sigh from her, and her shoulders sank. When she looked at him again, he saw none of the resignation he'd expected, only resolve, and truly, determination such as that was a sight for sore eyes.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, and though she tried to hide her interest, he could hear it as plain as day, one adventurous heart to another, and even though he'd spent a lifetime trying to keep his runaway hopes tempered and tightly-reined, he felt that familiar pull within him. The promise. The thrill.

The young woman whose name he didn't know looked up at him expectantly. In return, he gave her a wolfish grin, pleased by how close she stayed to him as he leaned down, and let his lips brush against her hair.

"I have a bit of an errand to perform, and I could use an extra pair of hands..."


	3. Of Errands and Information

**Author's Note**: Thank you to all my readers, reviewers, subscribers, and favourite clickers! My apologies that this took so long, family in on both sides has made for a chaotic week. I hope you enjoy the update!

* * *

**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter Three: Of Errands and Information**

* * *

By the time Brynjolf made his way down to the Flagon, it was well past midnight and sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. It had been a long, long time since he'd felt so eager. Of course, it was not lost on him that the strange girl with the story in her step was at the heart of his sudden interest, but time was of the essence and he had not a moment to spare for the caring, like an ardent boy out from behind his mother's skirts for the first time with the whole world spread wide before him.

But it wasn't the whole world he was after. Just information, a little _illumination_, and there was only one person he knew of who could give it to him.

"Rarnis make it out of bed today?" he asked Delvin as he all but skipped down the creaky wooden walkway into the tavern. Vekel was the only other soul in sight, sweet Tonilia likely dreaming away on that collapsing heap Vekel called a bed.

Delvin looked up from his mead, and chuckled deeply at the very sight Brynjolf. "What's gone and put that spring into your step, eh? This got something to do with that girl Sapphire saw you with up plank-side earlier tonight?"

Brynjolf only grinned. "Where's Rarnis?" he asked again.

Delvin gave him a very scrutinizing once-over appraisal, though whatever opinion he gleaned from it, he deigned to keep to himself. "Etienne's in the cistern," the old thief said, raising a brow. "Mercer's still got him under house arrest." He snorted. "And that's not like to change anytime soon. What's got into you, then?"

"I've found a bit of luck, I think," Brynjolf said, already walking toward the hidden door at the back of the Flagon.

"I seem to recall the last time you told me that, turned out was karma come to bite you on the ass," Delvin reminded him helpfully, but Brynjolf had no inclination to turn and – well, turn and _what_, he wasn't all that certain. Defend himself, perhaps. Cut and run. Come clean.

Who knew, really.

He closed the door to the cistern on such thoughts, the smell of lichen and stagnant water filling his nose, the damp and the rot filling his lungs, and the absurdity that this was like a bit of home to him rankled down to the very bone. Nothing to be done there. It was simply something he chose not dwell upon. Besides, it was a den of thieves. Anyone entering with higher expectations was in dire need of having their pockets lightened – or their throat cut, depending on whose sensibilities they so happened to offend.

As a rule, however, guests were strictly forbidden, avoiding such messy and unnecessary complications, and Brynjolf saw no unfamiliar faces as he circled the cistern, his footsteps giving off a lonely echo in the eerie quiet of the late hour. At a single glance, he knew who was abed, who was not, and who wasn't there at all. And his quarry was easiest of all to find, curled like a babe on his straw-filled mattress – and aye, whimpering into the night like one, as well.

Before waking Rarnis, Brynjolf knelt down and slid his hand in along the top of the bed, and his caution was rewarded with the touch of metal. The dagger he pulled out from beneath the pillow had a cruel edge on it.

Smirking, he put his boot on the frame of the bed and gave the sweating Breton a bit of a shake. "Rarnis, wake up," he said, keeping his voice a low hiss. He looked around. Though Mercer was nowhere to be seen, Brynjolf had no intention of meeting up with his guild master until the job in the marketplace was done and he had something to show for it – namely the girl, already proven and ready to be welcomed into their little family.

But for that to happen, Brynjolf needed to be ready, and to do _that,_ he needed to have this twinge of instinct in his gut either justified or duly dismissed as one more bad idea. And that required Rarnis. He gave the bed a firmer kick. "Wake up, you damn fool. I need to ask –"

"_Already told you," _Rarnis moaned, covering his head with a naked arm.

Brynjolf grit his teeth against a groan of frustration, and tried his best to gentle his tone. "Don't make me toss you in the cistern, lad." He gave the bed one last shake with his boot. Rarnis rolled onto his side with a gasp, fumbling blearily for his hidden steel. "Looking for this?" Brynjolf asked, offering Rarnis the hilt of his own dagger.

Comprehension was slow in coming to the Breton's eyes, but he eventually reached for the stained, well-worn grip. The painstaking care with which he replaced the dagger underneath his pillow was troubling and sad. "What do you need, Bryn?" Etienne asked, rubbing at his eyes as he sat up. The dim and dreary light of the cistern threw haunting shadows across the washboard his ribs had become.

"The woman who helped you escape," Brynjolf said, not bothering to wait for an invitation before sitting in the chair next to the bed. "I want to know more. Breton, you said she was. You sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Rarnis said. "Rock-born, you could hear it in her voice. Couldn't tell you the region, though. Her accent was a bit odd. Delvin might have –"

"What about her hair, her eyes?"

"Dark hair, I think, but she kept her hood up," Rarnis replied, dutiful and growing more curious as to why by the minute. "Young, though, and sweet-faced."

Brynjolf nodded, feigning disinterest. "Anything else?"

"Good with a blade. Better with the bow," Rarnis said with a shrug. "Archer, her friend called her."

"That's no high and mighty name of the Rock," Brynjolf noted, but it was nothing to get excited over – after all, anonymity was a precious enough commodity in their trade. If the girl was trying to hide beneath her false name, he wished her the best of luck. Notoriety seemed to have found her regardless if she was who he believed, because only a damned fool would pick a fight with the Thalmor and think to get away clean and free.

"She tell you what she was after, then?" Brynjolf asked, though by that time, he knew the answer.

"The old man, Esbern," Rarnis said, and he gave a violent shudder. "I could go to my grave a happy man if I never heard that name again."

Brynjolf stood, and could not help but see the sharp lines of a wasted body, could not help it anymore than he could not help but hear the layers of fear and anxiety that lurked beneath a fatigued slur. With a smile and his thanks in confidence, Brynjolf left Rarnis to go back to his nightmare-chased slumber.

His own bed was far more welcoming. Mercer had not returned to the cistern by the time Brynjolf had sat down to take off his boots, but it was not the first time nor would it be the last – the guild master's interest in his own manor topside waxed and waned with guild business. Perhaps he'd even found someone to warm his bed.

It was that very thought that caused Brynjolf to think about the stranger again, the way she'd walked, the curve to her mouth that was not a smile, the spark in her eye that had reminded him so much of –

Brynjolf growled at himself as he laid his head down. The past had a place, and it damned well needed to remain there. Complications tended to arise otherwise, and if the years had taught him anything, it was how to keep his demons where they belonged. There was no ridding oneself of the burdens of memory and regret, a hard road he'd often walked, but he'd learned long ago to bury what ached, what yearned, what stung. There was no use for it, after all. He had his position to consider and the guild to protect now, if nothing else.

Still, there was no denying now the _feeling _he had, teasing and taunting him into action when he'd spent so long in stagnation. He was much like his beloved Riften in that respect, and it had never bothered him in the least, but now – now, it just didn't seem _right_ to pass up this chance that had stumbled across his path. Maybe with a little luck, things would start going his way.

Across the cistern, Rarnis whined in his sleep like a dying dog.

_Poor bastard_, Brynjolf thought, but he tried his damnedest to block out the noise all the same, and willed himself to go to sleep. The dawn would not be long in coming, and there was no knowing what the daylight hours would bring.

Good things, he hoped, and oh how he loathed the hoping.

* * *

...

* * *

Sleep came, but dreams did not.

Morning came. Mercer did not.

* * *

...

* * *

Brynjolf awoke at the crack of dawn, his mind abuzz as if he'd not slept at all. It was not so unusual for him – he was not one for sleep, and was known to go days without. Many in their little organization suffered from that peculiar variety of insomnia, but that was not so unusual, either. Like to like. It was only a small part of what made them particularly good at their work.

Some of the others who were already awake – or those who had yet to find their beds – called out to him as he made his preparations for the morning, jeering him with good-natured intent. There were those who found his interest in the market trade curious, those who found it mysterious, and those who found his lackadaisical endeavours suspicious. All were present, and he paid not a one of them any mind. His position on the street at the veritable heart of the city allowed him to use his own eyes and ears, to make unclouded judgements on the guild jobs that took place within Riften's mouldering walls and to make the contacts that would lead to work without.

And after the years he'd put in and the sacrifices he'd made for the good of the guild, well – a man deserved a little sunshine in his life now and again.

The day, however, seemed to disagree. A misty pall hung about the city like a mourner's veil, and it was damnably cold. Summer had passed in a haze he scarcely remembered, and now autumn seemed poised to do much of the same. The seasons, after all, had little care for his guild and his dreams and his meagre market stall.

Despite the morning chill, however, the stash of elixirs that had spent the night locked beneath his stand were decidedly warm to the touch. Strange, that. Perhaps the shelf life of this lot of Ingun's questionable brew was drawing nearer, much faster than he would have expected. He'd once been told there were no certainties in alchemy whilst life itself carried the burden of two. What lesson he was meant to have gleaned from that, he supposed he'd never learned if he was disappointed over a spoiled batch of tonic.

It was no miracle but it would have to do, at least until the end of the day. He'd be having a word or two with the Black-Briar girl when she happened by his stall. It put him in a foul mood. He felt harassed by his own cursed luck, and the dismal morning helped not at all.

And so he settled back to wait, to calm himself and find that serenity he knew was out there somewhere.

Except that it _wasn't_, not for him anyhow, and not for his guild or his city. And Riften seemed to know it, shivering beneath her shroud of autumn mist, hiding away behind decayed walls and a name that had once meant something and now meant nothing, a place no decent soul would ever enter.

Still, the sight of the storied stranger lifted his heart and his spirits, and he watched _her_ for a time, almost sure that she was well aware of his attentions. She wore a cloak to guard against the cold of the morning, the dress underneath more appropriate and covered by an apron. She looked simple and unassuming, blending in so well that she looked like she _belonged_ to Riften, and no one could have convinced Brynjolf otherwise – a dangerous thing, he realized, and tried his best to shake the thought clean from his head.

He kept a close eye on her as she haggled with Grelka over a silver chain for a bit, the item a trifle and the price a pittance but the girl moved on and with a coy smile managed to get a better price out of the Argonian. She left him smiling and put to his ease, and Brynjolf could not help but smile as well, though he had to turn away to hide it. The girl knew what she was doing, however much she seemed to disapprove. There was a cautious twist to her mouth when she finally walked past his stall.

"The jeweller doesn't like you," she said, her head tilting to one side as she studied the phials of tonic that lined his stand. "He says you lay false claim to miracles." She reached out to pick up one of the glass phials – and immediately drew her hand back with a hiss.

Brynjolf smirked. "Careful there, lass. Hands off the merchandise."

She shot him a hard glare, and he caught sight of that spark burning hot behind her displeasure. "What is in those?" she asked, looking down at the elixirs. She crossed her arms over her chest, tense and defensive. Once burned, twice shy.

That wouldn't do at all.

"Honestly, I've not a clue," he said, and picked up a bottle. The thin neck was not yet too warm to hold for a time whereas the bottom was inexplicably hot. He gave the girl a very practised smile and a wink. "It could very well be Falmer blood. I've made it a rule not to ask." She wrinkled her nose, and he laughed. "I take it you're ready. Shall we get started, then?"

She was slow in answering, her eyes darting from the phial in his hand to the ones on the countertop and back again. She began to chew her lip in such a way that he found it difficult to keep a straight face. He did not try to rush her. It was her proving, not his, no matter how unaware of the fact she might be. However, that did not stop him from feeling relief when she finally gave him a hesitant nod.

"If I must," she said, looking up at him with green eyes full of doubt and reluctance. "I trust you remember our agreement."

"It has never left my mind," he said, and set down the phial of tonic. She caught the movement and shied away, but did not protest when he reached out to pull the hood of her cloak up over her hair, shadowing her eyes so that he could not see them. He could not at that moment reconcile the girl in front of him with the woman he assumed her to be, brazen enough to meddle in Thalmor affairs and determined enough to show up in Riften and stoop to his own level if it gained her the information she needed.

Who the old man in the Ratway was, and why the Dominion was so keen on getting their hands on him, Brynjolf did not know and did not care to fathom a guess. What the girl did with the information when she had it was none of his concern.

The girl herself, though, was another matter entirely. Perhaps she was someone important. Perhaps she was no one. In any case, Brynjolf was determined to find out.

"Wait until I start the distraction," he said, his voice kept low, and he realized his hands were still holding the corners of her hood. He dropped them quickly, as if the cloak were suddenly as warm as the phials of fraudulent elixir. He tried a smile to recover himself, but she didn't seem convinced. "You can show me what you're made of, lass."

"Oh, I don't think you're ready for that," she said, forlorn. She turned and walked slowly away, making her way around the gazebo in the centre of the plaza.

Brynjolf returned to his elixirs, running a hand over his face to steady himself and the tremor in his legs. His nerves jumped. His blood surged. By the Eight, he could not remember the last time he'd felt the thrill of a job take over him so quickly and so completely.

When he turned back to the crowd, the strange girl in her ash-grey cloak was gone from sight, and the time had come for a little showmanship.

"Everyone, gather 'round!"

Needless to say, the girl got the job done flawlessly. Not to be outdone, he managed to drum up a modest gathering, guards and beggars and all, who became so engrossed watching the Argonian try to denounce his products that not a one of them noticed the grey shadow stealing about the edges of the market behind their backs. Even he caught sight of her only once, and was hard pressed to keep the smile off his face as he played the crowd.

In the end, he sold not a single phial of tonic and the lot of them turned away grumbling, but by then, the job was already done and he was breathing easier. As the crowd dispersed, he leaned back against the rickety wall of his stall and waited.

He wouldn't be kept at it long.

She found him fifteen minutes later. She pulled down her hood as she approached him, a flush to her cheeks that hadn't been there before. Every time he tried to meet her eyes, she skipped them away but oh how they glowed with the rush of what she'd done.

"Looks like I chose the right person for the job," he said, trying hard to not to spook her completely when he could very well have spun her around and kissed her, such was the smug satisfaction that he felt. Some good news and a job well done were well worth celebrating. Alas, he did not think the sweet little thing would appreciate it. "You're quite light on your feet, lass."

She gave him a half-smile, growing all the prettier for it. "You tend to learn a thing or two when you're trying not to die."

He laughed. "You do at that," he said, and grinned down at her. "The way things have been going around here –"

"Our agreement," she said, cutting him off. There was that determination again. If only there was a way to turn it in his favour, but he was not fool enough to think she could be dissuaded to shift her focus. Unless –

"Our agreement," he said, and pulled a small pouch of septims off his belt. He tossed it to her before she could open her mouth to argue. She caught it with one hand and stared down at it, perplexed. "Your payment, as promised." He pushed himself away from his stall to stand straight. He towered over her and could not help but notice the tiny step back she took, keeping what distance she could.

She would be a challenge, indeed.

"It's a relief that our plan went off without a hitch," he said, and watched with satisfaction as she paled. For the moment, at least, he had her. To drag it out, he turned to busy himself at his stall, keeping his eyes to himself and on his work.

"I don't understand what you mean," she said quietly, and he did not miss the catch in her throat.

Brynjolf knelt down, moving the elixirs from the counter to the cupboard beneath the stand, grimacing with pain as the glass burned his hands. More than a word needed to be had with his little alchemist. Many words, carefully chosen ones, and it would have to be soon. He all but slammed the cupboard door shut, and locked it tight. Only then did he stand, and look the girl in the eye. She did not quail; he liked that.

"My organization has been having a run of bad luck," he said solemnly, for it was the undeniable truth that it was a dire situation. War and woken dragons did not bother him half so much. "I suppose that's just how it goes." He also supposed he should feel a bit of shame for peddling the guild's woes before this stranger to gain her trust, but he'd never been one to feel proper shame when he ought to. "But you never mind that, lass," he said, and mustered up a brave smile for her.

The girl tried again, not to be deterred. "I thought we had agreed –"

He glanced around, and saw that a handful of guards were finally making their way down from the keep. _ Ah, perfect timing_, he thought, and turned his attention back to the girl, who looked angry enough now to spit nails. "I'll tell you what," he said, as if it were so difficult a choice, "you did the job and you did it well, and there's more where that came from."

"I don't want _more_," she said, and he found her struggle for patience most becoming. She shook her head, some of her hair falling into her eyes. "I only want –"

The guards had begun to station themselves at all entrances to the plaza. It was time for him to make his exit.

"The group I represent makes its home in the Ratway beneath Riften," he said. He reached out to tuck the errant lock of her dark hair behind her ear. She stiffened, and watched his face warily as his hand lingered on her cheek a moment longer than he meant to. Her lips parted to speak, but he denied it of her. "A tavern," he said, and let his hand fall. "The Ragged Flagon. Meet me there, and then we'll talk." He gave her what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.

Before she could answer, he turned and walked away. He nearly bumped shoulders with the guard who was crossing the plaza.

"_All right, Brand-Shei. Turn out your pockets, we know you have it."_

Brynjolf did not stay to watch the rest of the commotion. Quickly and quietly, he crossed the canal and disappeared into the temple courtyard. His mind, however, stayed in the marketplace, with the job and with the girl who had helped him execute it so well. He would have to report to Mercer, if in fact Mercer had returned from whatever had pulled him away.

It was no matter. He had time yet, though he did not think the girl would make him wait long. Which was a shame, because the anticipation of waiting was always the sweetest part.


	4. Strictly Business

**Author's Note**: Thank you again to readers, reviewers, and subscribers. Halfway done this story, can you believe it?

.

* * *

**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter Four: Strictly Business**

* * *

Mercer was angry.

No. No, that wasn't right, Brynjolf realized as he braced himself against the hardened glare of his guild master. He'd seen Mercer angry before, he had heard his voice lower that dangerous octave, he had seen the ice come into eyes that were never warm to begin with. This – _this _was something different, it _paled _in comparison to this stone-cold silence that bordered on terrifying.

Mercer was not just angry. Mercer was _furious_.

Brynjolf, however, wasn't worried. It just needed a little smoothing over. So while the honour had still remained to him, he had taken the humble road and forfeited his cut from the marketplace job. The number of rules he'd broken was astounding, considering that he was supposed to be second-in-command and knew very well the penalty for his – well, his _creative improvisation_.

There had once been a time when Mercer had trusted the gut instinct that made a man with Brynjolf's talents invaluable to an organization like theirs. It was, after all, how Brynjolf had climbed the ladder as high as he had, turning from a small-time confidence man without a septim to his name to the right-hand of an international master thief. It was also how he had become the front-man for the guild, and now all these years later every job the guild had went through Brynjolf first, saving Mercer the time and frustrations of every day operations.

It was only with Maven Black-Briar who Mercer took special interest.

"There was a lot riding on this job," Mercer finally said. His words were carefully measured and bitten off with just the right amount of malice and irritation. Anyone but Brynjolf might have been quaking in their boots, but Brynjolf had a grin ready, and could wield it as well as any weapon.

"Then it's a good thing it paid off so well in the end. Well, if you're not me, that is."

Mercer only glared all the harder. The daggers shooting from his eyes would have had a lesser man bleeding from a hundred wounds, but Brynjolf only shrugged his shoulders, immune after all these years to such a show of animosity. He had done well, thanks in no small part to the girl, and Mercer knew it, however little he chose to admit it.

"I sent Sapphire to give you a hand. You already had everything you needed," Mercer said, as if it were a new revelation. He leaned over and gripped the table, bracing his weight on his arms.

"I needed a lighter touch than what Sapphire has to offer," Brynjolf replied easily, for it was truth. "The girl was brilliant. I'll say it to you now, aye, I took a risk on her. For good reason." And he would not apologize for _that_.

Mercer's eyes narrowed and he set his jaw, giving Brynjolf his most critical stare. For his part, Brynjolf came out of it mostly unscathed, though he knew the longer this drew out, the longer it would take to clear the air between them after. With every passing year, that time grew longer still.

"It's been a long time since we were in any position to call one of your feelings _'good reason'_," Mercer grumbled. He let his head hang, shaking it slowly and sadly. There seemed to be more silver in his hair of late, and more every time they met like this.

"Oh, it was more than a feeling, Mercer," Brynjolf said, smug as he crossed his arms over his chest but he lowered his voice all the same. No one was nearby, but even with the constant rush of water draining into the cistern, a clear echo had a way of travelling to the wrong ears sometimes, and misheard information gleaned upon eavesdropping was a dangerous thing. "Maul stopped the girl at the gate when she entered the city yesterday. This one is full of questions about old men in the Ratway. She may be the one who freed Rarnis from the Thalmor," Brynjolf said, watching his guild master oh so carefully.

"Or she's an Aldmeri spy sent to fetch him back," Mercer said. "We need to know more. You said she's staying at the inn?"

"Aye, that she is," Brynjolf said, "but I invited her down here for a drink – and a little chat."

"Strictly business, I presume," Mercer said, the angry glare returning with a vengeance. "Keep her the hell away from the cistern. I don't care if she shows up with the Crown of Barenziah stuffed into her bags. We don't need anyone catching sight of Rarnis."

"You have my word," Brynjolf said, wondering idly what value such an oath had coming from a thief like himself, his honour dubious and his fraternity unmoving.

Mercer only nodded, staring hard instead at something over Brynjolf's shoulder; with a backward glance, Brynjolf followed his gaze to where Rarnis sat alone. He was hunched over at the edge of the cistern with his feet dangling in the water, lost to all thought and all sense. A sorry sight indeed, but Brynjolf was not fool enough to believe for even a moment that the well-being of Etienne Rarnis was anywhere close to becoming Mercer's greatest concern.

"We'll get this mess cleaned up," Brynjolf said, smiling once more with what certainty he could muster. "Has there been any word from Maven on what the Thalmor want with that old beggar in the Ratway?"

"Nothing she has seen fit to share with me," Mercer snapped. "Though I doubt Elenwen discusses such delicatepolitics over dinner. Now I suggest you head back to the Flagon to deal with this hopeful of yours. And don't let her get too comfortable. I want to know what we're dealing with before you even think of bringing her in."

Brynjolf left Mercer to his pacing and his grumbling, thinking the conversation over. Mercer let him walk all of two paces before he spoke up again.

"And one more thing," Mercer said in that slow, sly way he had. Brynjolf paused and turned back, more curious than wary. A bad choice. "I'm shutting down the little scheme you've been running in the market with the Black-Briar girl."

It was the last thing Brynjolf had been expecting. "Why's that now?" he asked, the only words he would allow himself. For in that moment he felt an anger of his own and was hard-pressed to fight it into submission. He might very well be the second-in-command around the guild, but he'd pushed his luck enough with the risk he'd taken on the stranger. He didn't need Mercer questioning his fealty or his dedication, as much as it pained him to take the orders without a single utterance raised in his own defence.

"Maven has expressed some – well, some _concerns_, shall we say," Mercer said, a wry twist to the corner of his mouth betraying his otherwise calm veneer. "She's asked me to put an end to it. Immediately."

"As you say," Brynjolf muttered, giving his guild master a short, cursory bow. He stalked off toward the training room without a word. At times like this, he was certain that Mercer and that suspicious old bat were two of a kind. His rotten luck, there was naught to be done about it. Maven was the very last of their influential clients, never to be crossed, and she hadn't stuck with the guild all these years out of loyalty. A woman like Maven Black-Briar was loyal only to herself – and to her fortune.

His black thoughts continued to roll through his mind as he entered the training room, which was thankfully empty of a single other soul, leaving him free to glower and grumble as he yanked open the cupboard in the corner and began to undress. With a good deal of care, he folded the fine quilted coat, the embroidered tunic and the wool breeches, and set them aside to later wrap in paper and store in his own trunk. Adversely, his guild armour felt burdensome and the heady scent of the leather was so strong he thought he might be sick from it.

Sapphire sauntered in just as he was struggling with the last of the buckles. He'd had to loosen more than one, another grievous blow to his already injured pride. Alas, even the ruse of a charmed merchant's life had not come without cost.

"Help me with these damn things, would you, lass?" he asked, though in his frustration it was less a request and more a command. The last sight he had of her was the twist of a smirk as she came up behind him to readjust his belts and fittings.

"Been a long time," she remarked, as if it were so idle an observation. He knew better than that.

He shrugged and stretched his limbs, as with the aid of a few well-placed tugs and another notch gone she had the chestpiece sitting better on his broad shoulders and his body began to remember how to move with the added weight. The armour was _made_ for such ease – it was _he _who was the bulky, unwieldy thing.

"Well, you could pass for one of us, I suppose," Sapphire said as she stepped back to admire her work. He turned to face her and was given one of those rare smiles of hers, the ones that could have lifted his heart if her eyes hadn't stayed so godsdamned cold and sober. She was warming though, he had to give her that much credit at least. Time would take care of the rest. "The word around here is that you don't like to follow your own rules," she said when she'd finished admiring the sight of him.

"Bah," he said, reaching for his sword belt and cinching closed its twin buckles around his waist. "Mercer doesn't like us to make waves. He's afraid of getting wet. Always has been."

"Then why are you rocking the boat?"

Brynjolf grinned. "If you hadn't noticed, this storm over our heads is drowning us. A few waves are the least of Mercer's worries." Sapphire seemed to have no argument for that and only shook her head at him as he left her in the training room – only to find that the news of his disgrace had indeed travelled fast, and he found that every eye in the cistern was now upon him. He laughed; it carried, barely sounding his own.

"Back to work, then, lads," he said, knowing full well that Mercer had put a stop to that, too, though even in his current mood Brynjolf couldn't fault the decision. Thalmor kidnapping full members of the guild right outside the city? It was a precarious situation. One he was certainly glad had not fallen into his lap to deal with. He was rather no good at political games.

The crowd in the Flagon was infinitely more welcoming, though Brynjolf was sorry to see that grey-faced Gissur had returned from his bounding as filthy as ever and reeking of sour spirits.

"Still alive, Gissur?" Brynjolf asked, a note of pointed jest in his voice. He kept his careful distance from the old beggar, and the smell of sure drunken cowardice that clung to him as a woman's perfume.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Gissur returned with a laugh, raising a mug of something he probably hadn't paid for. Brynjolf forced himself into a stiff smile and gave a low chuckle, turning away as Delvin made good as a friend and flagged him over.

"Well, take a look at you," the old thief said, nodding toward Brynjolf's reacquired guild armour – and no doubt to the dust on the spaulders. "This mean I have to start taking orders from you again? I don't think I like the sound of that."

"You seem to be implying that you took my orders before," Brynjolf said, laughing in earnest, and gave Delvin a hard enough nudge to near unbalance him on his stool.

He was grinning ruefully as he corrected himself. "As you say, boss."

"Something I can get for you, Brynjolf?" Vekel said. He was already reaching beneath the counter for a bottle of reserve, but Brynjolf held up a hand to stop him.

"Nothing for me," he said. "I'm expecting someone."

"Your new girl?" Delvin asked, this time dodging the blow Brynjolf aimed at him.

"A new recruit, with a bit of luck," Brynjolf said, feeling smug as he crossed his arms over his chest. He'd caught her attention, baited her, teased her, and then he'd withdrawn. She would have had no choice but to head down into the Ratway to look for him. And if he'd read that determination in her eyes right, she wouldn't be keeping him waiting much longer.

"Oh, Lady Luck been showing you a bit of skin, has she then?" Delvin asked, snorting into his mead. "You'd be the only one around here."

As if divinely guided, the creak of a door opening echoed across the Flagon, a dull and ominous sound. Someone had entered from the Ratway. Brynjolf grinned. "No, but I think she's smiled on us at last," he said. "I think this girl might be who we need to bring some glory to our name again. And a little coin."

"What's that?" Delvin said, pretending as though he hadn't been listening at all. "You waxing on about the old days again?"

Vekel laughed at the old man, shaking his head. "Give it up, Brynjolf," he said easily. "Those days are over."

"I'm telling you, this one's different." He could feel the hairs on his arms, on the back of his neck, raise for no reason at all. Different, indeed.

Dirge spoke up from his dark corner. "We've all heard that one before," he said. "Quit kidding yourself." He sounded more weary than angry.

His dissension came as no surprise to Brynjolf. Dirge himself was only the hired muscle; he was under Vekel's direct employ. It was his mutual interest in guild affairs made him an honorary member, though no true thief was he. His brother had moved on to greener pastures some years past – or some might say _blacker _pastures, aye, blacker by far and full of thorns – but Brynjolf knew that Dirge held no such intentions. It was the same _feeling_ that told him the girl from the market, this Archer, was special.

But there would be no convincing anyone else of that. Only _she _could prove herself to the guild.

"It's time to face the truth, old friend," Vekel said, warming up to this familiar tune. "You and Vex," he said, nodding to where she sat with Tonilia upon the gallery, "and Mercer," and here he jerked his chin over his shoulder, "you're all part of a dying breed. Things are changing." He sounded sorely disappointed about it, but resigned to a fate he could not escape. Like they all were.

_Aye, you're right about that_, Brynjolf thought to himself at the sound of approaching footsteps. _But some things will always stay the same._

"Dying breed, eh?" he said, and turned to face his fate. "What do you call _that_, then?"

She watched him from where she had stopped short at the bottom of the plank walkway, her hand still light upon the splintered rail. She stood upon the very threshold, hesitant to take that final step. He went to her at once.

"Well, well," he said, and with his back to his guildmates, he was able to give her a proper grin. She was a sight to behold, hair tucked hastily away from her face, her cheeks flushed with exertion. There was dried blood on her hands, a fine spray across her forearms like freckles. And there it was, just as Rarnis had said, the pale winter blue of Ulfric's cause draped proudly across her breasts.

"Colour me impressed, lass," he said, still taking in this whirlwind of a woman who was a far cry from the young lady he'd employed in the market only hours before. "I wasn't certain I'd ever see you again." It was on the tip of his tongue to use the name he'd garnered from his contacts and his prying, but he held back. Perhaps he'd be able to tease it out of her on his own, and never have to reveal his advantage.

She didn't answer him right away, looking around instead at the Flagon, the dreary light, the moss and crumbling mortar, the bloated, rotting wood. Equally, she took in its patrons, each face open before her with utter curiosity. Aye, a right bunch of master thieves he had and no mistake. With an angry glare over his shoulder, everyone went back to their own damned business.

"Getting here was easy," she said at last, and he looked back to catch the disappointment that was so very clear in the twist of her mouth.

Oh but she was a confident little thing. "Reliable _and _headstrong?" he said, ever more intrigued, but he kept a tight hold on his flattery. She still looked as if she might spook and run at the slightest hint of implied familiarity. Still, he could not lie to the girl. His smile was genuine. "You're turning out to be quite the prize."

It was the wrong thing to say. Her gaze darkened. "I'm no one's prize," she said, and her voice was thick with resentment. She did not look away from him, her face unreadable, and he felt almost guilty for toying with her as he had. "Now, our _agreement_ –"

"I think I can recall something of an agreement," he said, dismissively.

"His name is _Esbern_ and –"

At that little declaration, he put a hand on her elbow to pull her up the gangplank and a little deeper into the shadows. She did not try to pull away, indeed she scarcely seemed to notice that he'd nudged them away from curious eyes nor that her hissed whisper of a name had drawn too many stares.

"– I did as you asked, you said yourself –"

"He's down in the Warrens," Brynjolf said quickly to shut her up, "And he pays us good coin for nobody to know about it. Now kindly keep your voice down."

She yanked her arm away from him, the gentle lilt of her pleading gone in an instant only to be replaced with disbelief. "That's _it_? That's all you have for me? After all that – oh, the nerve," she huffed, though she'd lowered her voice as he'd asked, almost dangerously so.

He took a step away from her delightful indignation, and sat down upon the rail. He leaned his back against the great stone pillar that hid them from sight of both the bar and the gallery, and waited. His silence only incensed her all the more.

"So he's somewhere _that way_?" she asked as she pointed, exasperated, to the door opposite the one she'd come in.

"Aye, he is," he said, and nothing more.

She deflated a bit, the fight going out of her shoulders, and she dared to smile. "There now," she said, as if she were not speaking to him but to herself, "was that so hard?"

"You tell me," he said, and chuckled despite himself. Her smile brightened, shining a bit truer than before. "You're the one who had to earn the information."

"I earned it twice over," she said. "That hardly seems fair."

Brynjolf smirked, watching her a moment. She had pressed hard for her answers, fought her way through traps and vermin and worse to reach him where he'd put himself out of her way, and yet now that she had it she lingered a little longer. Passing curious.

"Thank you, Brynjolf," she said quietly. "For your help. I should –"

"And here we are again," he said, cutting her off. "You know my name, lass, but I don't have the pleasure of knowing yours."

She raised an eyebrow. "You want my _name_?" She sounded surprised. "No one ever wants my name."

"Oh? What do they call you then?"

"Oh _gods_, so many things."

He laughed then, and shook his head. "So what shall _I_ call you?" he asked with a certain amount of intimacy that couldn't be denied. He hinted at further dealings, but even he could feel the pull within when he thought of her staying, and becoming a member of the guild – strictly business, of course. Strictly business.

She hesitated, and her lips parted only to purse together again. Perhaps it was even the truth she had almost spoken so absently. For soon after she sighed and said, "Archer. My name, I mean. It's Archer." And in that moment, he knew her name for what it was: a shield, a cover, a lie. A familiar lie. Anonymity in his line of work was commonplace enough.

"Archer," he said, as if he were trying it out for the first time, as if he'd not said it a half-dozen times in the past few days, digging around for bits of information among his contacts, all if it seeming more fabrication than fact.

"An honour," she said, giggling at the absurdity of proper courtesies in a place such as the Flagon. It was simple enough for him then to sit up a little straighter and reach for her hand, put it to his lips with a smile on his face. A shame for the shadows, really. He missed that wildfire spark in her eyes.

"The honour is mine, lass," he said, every inch the gentleman – to charm her, he told himself, to put her at her ease so that he might entice her yet into staying, and bring that luck with her. It had naught to do with her sweet face or her mischievous eyes or the story in her step that followed wherever she went.

It had naught to do with that at all.

Her fingers curled as if she meant to pull her hand back from the brush of his lips, and in an instant he tightened his grip. His seat on the rail had evened out their heights so that his view of her face was unhindered – but for the shadowy gloom that cloaked them so well – and he could see that the smile that had lit her face had fallen away.

"Now tell me, Archer, what do you want with that old man?" he asked softly. He lowered her hand away from his lips but he did not let her go.

"Are you expecting free information?" she asked, teasing and sweet all at once, and for the first time Brynjolf realized that he needed to be more careful around this girl and her eyes and her story.

He gave her fingers a squeeze before he released her. "Get on then," he said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

She left him then with a smile, keeping her head down as she walked across the Flagon, her dark hair falling as a curtain to shield her face. She looked back at him once before she disappeared through the heavy door into the Vaults. He was sorry to see her go, but for the benefit of his guildmates – who had, undoubtedly, heard more than he would have liked – he put a smile on his face as he stepped out of the shadows and down the wooden walkway.

"Where's Gissur slunk off to?" he asked as he counted heads. The girl had distracted him so much that he hadn't heard the beggar leave.

"Do I look like his keeper?" Vex snapped from her corner up on the gallery. Her mood was dark indeed. There would be no needing to ask her what she thought of the new recruit who was not a recruit. The others were sensible enough to hold their peace.

All but Delvin, who sat down across from Brynjolf only moments after he himself had taken a seat. Leaning in his head conspiratorially, Brynjolf could have almost laughed to see the old thief with a lecherous grin on his swarthy face.

"So that's her, eh?"

"Aye," was all Brynjolf said as he signalled to Vekel to finally bring him that bottle of reserve.

"Flighty little thing, ain't she? Don't look to be cut out for it."

"I don't know," Brynjolf said. He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, and allowed himself a bit of a smug smile. "I think she might surprise us yet."


	5. Second Only to One

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* * *

**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter Five: Second Only to One**

* * *

A few hours after Archer had disappeared quietly into the Ratway Vaults in search of whatever it was she hoped to find, Brynjolf found himself in the cistern once again.

It seemed his fate to stand before the desk while Mercer paced behind it. To his relief, however, he had discovered that he was no longer the source of Mercer's frustration and had miraculously returned to the guild master's good graces.

After all, in their line of work there were always greater matters at hand.

"Maven's not happy," Mercer said, shaking his head. His face was dark and his feet were restless.

"Maven's never happy," Brynjolf replied. It was a discourteous truth and a dangerous one but the cistern was still safe enough from Maven's displeasure. Still, Maven's latest snit was Mercer's unending grief. "What is it this time?"

"It's Aringoth," Mercer said shortly.

Brynjolf could not help but roll his eyes. "Oh, what has that old fool done now? Was it her pride or her vanity he wounded?"

"Neither."

That Mercer wasn't forthcoming, Brynjolf should have taken as a sign, but his mind had lingered a bit too long in a shadowy corner with pretty company and he was having difficulty getting back to business. Still, it wasn't lost upon him that he was being thoroughly baited and so he obliged his guild master and asked, "Then what's happened with Aringoth?"

"His payment is late."

_Oh, is that all, _Brynjolf thought ungraciously but he kept his mouth firmly shut, and instead he chewed on the information as if it were truly as dire as Mercer was making it out to be. After all, Brynjolf had a number of shopkeepers up plankside who were slowly but steadily becoming more arrogant and less _reliable_ with their payments; they were in fact coming close to incurring debt with the guild – something that would not stand.

But Goldenglow was different.

"So what do we do?" Brynjolf mused aloud, as it was not his opinion he'd been asked for.

Mercer stopped pacing. He turned to face the empty shelves behind his desk, arms folded over his chest. For a long while he said nothing, for a long while he _did _nothing, and what Mercer saw upon those bare dusty cases in his moment of disquiet, Brynjolf could not guess.

"Aringoth is no fool," said Mercer after far too long. There was a moment when Brynjolf was confused by Mercer's train of thought before he remembered that it had been he who had called Aringoth a fool. A casual dismissal, even if the old elf was finally thinking it time to grow a damned backbone. Perfect timing, that.

"Fool or no," Brynjolf said, wanting very much to keep the situation well in hand, "what does Maven say?"

"Maven is convinced something is wrong, without a shred of proof," Mercer said, and he turned once more to his desk where he could gesture at the paperwork and unsealed letters found there. The shelves that had held his attention were at once forgotten. "I tell you, though, her gut instinct is something to rival yours, Bryn."

Brynjolf laughed. "Don't tell me I've wasted my life here when I could have made my fortune as a legitimate man of business."

"I've heard your pitches in the market," Mercer said with a smirk. "You would make a poor businessman. You're much better off where you are and, more importantly, you are of more use to _me _where you are."

Brynjolf put a hand to his heart and tried to look wounded, but there was a smile on his face that could not be suppressed. "I live to serve," he said with a mock bow. "Now, tell me, what's the elf actually _done_?"

"What has he _done_?" Mercer asked, and all at once the lightness in his tone disappeared and it was back to the weighty seriousness of guild affairs. "Nothing outright, but according to Maven, he sent his quarterly report by standard courier instead of delivering it to her in person."

Brynjolf snorted. It was difficult to believe that such a mild slight could cause such an uproar, because what Mercer had just said, in no uncertain terms, was that Aringoth had offended Maven when he stopped paying court to her while she lorded over the lesser men and women of Riften, set higher than even the Jarl herself.

He was reminded of Archer of all people then, when only a few hours prior she had been in the tempestuous glory of her exasperation. _"Oh, the nerve," _she had exclaimed, and Brynjolf could not help but grin at the memory, though he would never do her the injustice of likening her to a harpy such as Maven Black-Briar.

"What else?" he asked instead. There had to be more to it.

"The late payment is nothing to wave off, or had you forgotten already?" Mercer said. "I'll give that Bosmer a day before I send someone out to remind him of his responsibilities to the guild."

"Your generosity is moving," Brynjolf said, but his sarcasm was noticeable.

The guild master's eyes cut toward him, ever critical. "You're too easy on your tenants, Brynjolf. You always have been."

"You keep talking like that, people will begin to think I'm a soft touch," said Brynjolf, and he made no effort to keep the edge from his voice.

Mercer gave no reply, but his wry smile and brief nod seemed to indicate his approval. In that moment, however, Brynjolf had not a whit of care for the sparing. There had been few times in the past when he had found himself the object of Mercer's reproach and had always found it an easy enough burden to bear. It was the cold disdain that rankled him sorely, the widening gap between the guild master and his thieves that Brynjolf could never quite force himself to ignore.

Mercer's drive to appease Maven Black-Briar's lofty and high-handed expectations kept him apart from the rest. Kept him above.

It had always been that way with Mercer. In all the years of their affiliation, Brynjolf had never known another way. But there were those who remembered a different time, those who claimed a different way. Those who remembered the good old days, and all those golden years in the time before.

Bygone years.

Sadly, Brynjolf was stuck in the here and now, where the Flagon was empty, their coffers were dusty, and their clients were dwindling, one by one. The bare shelves at Mercer's back were mocking cruel.

The lass had given him reason to hope. She had awoken that thrill in him that had been quiet and comfortable for far too long, that knotting in the gut, the sweet torment of anticipation that caught the breath and quickened the blood. He could not lie to himself so convincingly as to deny that he _wanted _her, aye, wanted her on his payroll, under his guidance, and perhaps even in his bed. Interesting prospects, all three.

It wouldn't be until later on that he learned of the trouble with threes.

"Now tell me," Mercer said, his hard voice cutting easily through Brynjolf's soft thoughts, "what did you learn about the girl?"

Brynjolf chuckled, all the while wondering if his distraction had allowed his face to give too much away. "Not much, I'm afraid. I am beginning to think she's playing hard to get."

"She's sounding more the thief than ever," Mercer said with dry detachment. Brynjolf was not put off; it was a rare occurrence indeed when Mercer Frey let on so easily what he thought and felt. The guild master continued to press, ignorant of his second's idle observations. "Tell me you managed to get a name out of her at the very least."

"Aye," Brynjolf said, "and we were right to suspect. She named herself Archer. Came to the Flagon draped in Stormcloak blue."

"A shame," Mercer said, and shook his head. "The way you went on about this girl, I was beginning to think she might have potential."

"She may yet," Brynjolf ventured, but Mercer held up a hand to silence him.

"Where is she now?"

Brynjolf hesitated before he gave answer, wary now at Mercer's persistent interest. It was a mistake, for a darkness came into Mercer then, and even Brynjolf, who had so often claimed immunity to the withering glares of the guild master found himself near to unmanned beneath such intense scrutiny.

"She went off in search of the old man holed up in the Warrens," he said. "Nothing I said would dissuade her. She'll be back. Only one way out of there."

Mercer nodded, but he said nothing. Behind those cold eyes, Brynjolf could see the wheels turning, grinding, thinking ever on the profit of the guild, effortless and without end.

"While you were in the Flagon charming a complete stranger, I received a message from Maven," Mercer said, and once more Brynjolf found himself unexpectedly bristled by the guild master's dismissal of the girl and his own instincts concerning what she could do for the guild. "We're not to interfere with what goes on in the Ratway tonight."

"What's this, then?" Brynjolf asked, hard-pressed to keep his own challenging nature in check. Ever and always, he would remain the second and to only one man would he answer, but something inside him demanded to know all he could. A thief worked in shadow, he did not work in the dark. "Nothing happens in the Ratway without our say-so."

"It's been given," Mercer said, waving him off. "In so many words, at least. We want no trouble with the Thalmor, Brynjolf. Their attention would be – most _unhelpful._"

"Aye, it would," Brynjolf agreed, and forced a chuckle that came more as a choke. Had he really so blindly sent the girl to her doom in the darkness of the Ratway? A handful of half-mad vagrants were one thing, a patrol of trained Dominion soldiers was quite another.

Still, if Etienne Rarnis was to be believed, half-mad himself and a coward above all other things, if _he _were to be believed, Archer was herself capable and resourceful, someone of merit and skill. Had she not fought her way down to the Flagon simply to gain an answer from Brynjolf when she could have looked elsewhere? The Thalmor were a force to be reckoned with and no one in Skyrim could claim otherwise, but perhaps this lone girl with her rebel pride was something else entirely.

"If the girl is who you say she is, then there is nothing you can do to help her," Mercer said, and his sharp tone was unforgiving. "The elves will find her and cart her off, along with the old man everyone is after."

Brynjolf, however, could not be convinced to give up so easily. Bowing to elves was not a talent he had ever seemed to possess. He put his hands on the front of Mercer's desk, his arms braced against his weight as he leaned in, the better to see those turning wheels and the man whose head they filled.

Mercer continued, unflinching. "Word on the street is that the Thalmor embassy was infiltrated. That alone is worth considering. If it was indeed this same girl you're going soft on me for, then more the fool are you. She was caught, and they know who she is. And what do we do to those who get themselves caught?"

"We turn our backs," Brynjolf said automatically, and grit his teeth against the argument he knew was coming. It would do no good. The rules were simple, and always had been, even for those who had no formal ties to their organization. There might once have been a time when a freelance thief such as the girl – if she was indeed a thief after all – would have had to answer to the guild for the commotion she had caused, or find herself in such circumstance as to wish she had. But the guild didn't have that kind of pull anymore, and Brynjolf had not the resources to protect her now.

"I'm glad to hear you still remember," Mercer said. "I was beginning to wonder."

"And what of Rarnis, then?" Brynjolf asked. The old desk beneath his hands lent him courage when he very well knew he should mind his damn tongue before it got him into more trouble than he could readily talk his way out of.

"Snatched is not caught," said the guild master, scathing, "and we may have use for Rarnis yet."

"Bah," Brynjolf muttered, and pushed himself away from the desk. He left without being dismissed, and there was not a word raised against it as he walked away. Everyone stayed clear out of his path and he met not a single eye as he stormed out of the cistern.

When he reached the Flagon, however, it was clear that something had happened. Vekel was stalking about, nervous as a caged sabre cat, pointlessly putting his filthy bar rag to this or that in an attempt to clean that came to nothing. Delvin and Vex seemed to have put aside whatever misdeeds lay between them and were to be found at the same table with their heads together. And Gissur, the old beggar, was still nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, there you are, Bryn. Bloody good timing," Delvin said at the sight of him. "I hope that girl of yours is as good a sneak as you said. The Vaults are crawling with Thalmor." He nodded to where Dirge stood, a solid barrier of muscle and steel before the door that Archer had disappeared through scarce hours before.

"Poor thing," Vex said scornfully, as only a hard and beautiful woman could.

"You underestimate her," Brynjolf told her with a grin. "Just watch and learn, lass."

"Learn? From a _Stormcloak_?" Vex scoffed.

"She's no Stormcloak," Delvin said. "Looks good in that blue, though. All heroic like."

Vex got up from the table then, seeking out a quieter corner. Delvin watched her go with a fond smile.

"She look jealous to you?" he asked, still grinning as he lifted a bottle of reserve to his lips. "I think she looked jealous."

.

* * *

**Author's Note**: My apologies for the short chapter, and as always, a big thank you to all my (very quiet) readers.

Magister of Asariel asked how far I plan on taking this story. This specific story will follow only until the end of "A Cornered Rat" / "A Change Arrangement" - so in truth, it is almost finished, but it is only the first story in my planned "Archer's Paradox" trilogy that follows the Thieves Guild / Nightingale quest chain to the end. I have two notebooks worth of timelines and story notes. The second story, as yet untitled, will be twice as long - and will no doubt be rated "M" and include the POVs of both Brynjolf and Archer. I hope that answers your question, my lovely Magister!


	6. What Happens in the Warrens

******Author's Note**: A big heartfelt thank you for the feedback I've received. I am so ridiculously happy at how this story is turning out and the reception it's receiving. One more chapter after this, then onto a sequel (which my muse is still struggling to title).

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* * *

**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter Six: What Happens in the Warrens ...**

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Brynjolf was not a nervous man.

As a rule, thieves generally weren't. It tended to become a vocational hazard, all that unnecessary jumping at shadows and sudden noises. With so many years of experience under his belt, Brynjolf had come to pride himself on his patience, his ability to stay collected when those around him shouted for blood and justice. It made him one of the best at what he did.

It was true that there were those who would consider it a failing, this unending patience. A pity they couldn't see him now.

Still, anyone who did not know him, anyone who so happened to stumble into the Flagon that night to lay eyes on him for the very first time would never know that his nerves were strung so tight they were like to snap and put someone's eye out.

He was, as always, the picture of calm. He'd managed to put enough mead into his blood to ensure that much, at least. The tension that lingered beneath the surface of this calm, however, felt ready to break. All it would take was a single stone's drop, and oh, how he dreaded it – and yearned for it as well, aye, there was no use in denying.

With a glance around, it was quite apparent that he was not the only one on edge, and it all came back to Rarnis. His sudden reappearance only a few days prior had upset the delicate balance of things around the guild. Secrecy and shadows, these were their trademarks, their _trade. _For Etienne to stumble through the gates in the middle of the day as he had was bad enough. But for the Thalmor to march into the Flagon demanding names and answers, well, that just wasn't their way. It was too bold, too different, and too much like being jerked around by those imperial strings they were all so apt to forget.

Now, that wasn't to say Brynjolf had a thing against the Empire, one way or the other. But he much preferred Ulfric's policies of governance – or lack thereof – to the Empire and the Dominion breathing down their necks. It helped things run much more smoothly. The Empire had no place in Riften. To that, at least, the members of the guild agreed.

Which was why Mercer's sanction of the entire thing was just salt in the wound.

Brynjolf could see the mark of betrayal on every face in the Flagon that night. A grim sight.

The charm of Vekel's manic, ineffective cleaning had worn off an hour before. Tonilia had tried enticing him to sit, but his casual dismissal of her efforts had put her in a dark mood. Vex was keeping a careful distance from everyone, her back up against a stack of crates, arms folded defensively over her chest. Like the rest, she seemed unable to keep her eyes from wandering back to the door to the Vaults.

It had been too long. It had been too _quiet._

"A shame about the kid, Bryn," Delvin said, keeping his voice low. "That's a bit of bad luck, right there."

Brynjolf shook his head. "Luck had nothing to do with it." That was the only conclusion he'd managed to come to as he sat there getting steadily drunker. Whatever Archer had done to put herself in the Thalmor's good graces was something far beyond luck or fate, and it had naught to do with his guild. Whatever had the whole world in a frenzy about finding this old man, Esbern, well – that much, Brynjolf couldn't work out on his own. Maybe it was the mead, maybe it was the girl, but he couldn't force himself to think much beyond the dark and dangerous silence of the Ratway, and the elves he'd unwittingly handed her over to.

Another hour drained away much as the first two had, with gloom, with brooding silence, and with too much mead. Midnight came and went.

Half of the thieves in the Flagon expected her to come out of there in iron fetters, chained to the old man she'd gone in there looking for. The other half – well, it would only be right to assume they didn't expect her to come out of there at all, that she would end up just another body to be dumped in the lake come trash day.

As for Brynjolf, a man of both years and experience, a man whose stake in the whole mess had become far more personal than he'd ever wanted to allow – there he was, sitting with his fingers crossed like a schoolboy, waiting to see which way the coin would land.

Days before he had laid eyes on her, he'd had a feeling about her, this girl who was not who she claimed to be. There was something about her, from her name to her face to the way she walked. Something inexplicable, undeniable. He'd never been one to brag, but his feelings, good or bad, usually had a way of being proven right in the end, and this one was _strong_. Strong enough that even Mercer had stopped to take notice of the dead seriousness when Brynjolf had tried to explain.

It was too bad, this business with the Thalmor, Delvin was right about that much. Feeling or no, the guild would do well to stay away from such a high profile person. A shame...

But shame or not, it was then that the door to the Vaults creaked open, and it was then that his worries, his shady thoughts, and maybe even time itself, seemed to stop altogether.

It was Archer who stepped through the door, and she wasn't alone: the old man who was the cause of all this commotion was with her, gray and peaked, but alive, whole, and decidedly unfettered. His presence was so oddly out of place in the Flagon, with his ragged clothes and his bald head as wrinkled as an old walnut, but he was nothing compared to the sweet and reckless fury who accompanied him.

Never in his life had Brynjolf seen such a strange and beautiful sight as Archer in that moment. She'd flattened her back against the heavy door as if to trap whatever terror she'd escaped on the other side. Her weapon was still in hand, with a white-knuckled grip on her bow and her quiver woefully close to empty. Her hood hung forgotten down her back, and her dark hair was tucked messily behind her ears, curled tendrils of it matted with sweat against her cheeks, cheeks that were flared pink with exertion and fear. She was breathing hard, and her eyes darted around, wide and wild, skipping desperately from face to face now, her desire to hide left to the wayside as she searched vainly for safe passage.

The first one to approach her, the bravest of them all it seemed, was Vekel. He was not, however, the most eloquent, as no words came out of his mouth as it slowly moved open and closed, like a fish out of water. He poked his head into the stone alcove. The girl fixed her eyes on him, and damned if Vekel the Man didn't freeze in place.

"Sorry about the mess," she mumbled, and moved away from the door. In one fluid movement, she tucked her battered old bow safely onto her back, held in place by a harness fixed to her quiver.

Vekel stammered a bit. She didn't look back. Instead, her eyes had caught Brynjolf's for a single, fleeting moment, and a strange shadow slid across her face, there and then gone, but _there_ for that briefest of moments, conflicted and – well, _sad_. And then she looked away again, all drive and focus, and the moment slipped away as if it had never been.

That wouldn't do at all, now would it?

By the time he stood from his chair, she was already up the gangplank, coaxing the old man along with a gentleness that belied the blood that had dried on her cheeks. Elven blood – _Thalmor _blood – if he were to hazard a guess, as the silence from the Ratway Vaults stretched on and not a soul came barging through the door after her.

There was no smugness in him then as there might normally have been, to have been proven right by the pluck and audacity of this strange young woman. He was losing her, that much was painfully clear. On her way out of the door and out of his life without even a backward glance, her eyes cast ever forward at what lay ahead.

_Watch the shadows_, he wanted to tell her. Perhaps he might have, if given the chance.

"Archer," he called out after her, and she stopped short at the sound of her name, caught in the bleak gloom of the stone archway where they had dallied not hours before. The memory came back to him, so fresh and still so seemingly unreal, as if it had never truly happened. He wasn't about to let another moment like that pass him by.

"Brynjolf," she said, his name a mere breath that slipped past her lips. She watched him uncertainly as he caught her, as his hand closed about the bareness of her arm between her quilted mail and leather bracer. She was _cold_ to the touch, soft and sharp, like the smallest of pinpricks, electricity at his fingertips. He squeezed harder, her flesh warming beneath the palm of his hand. She paid his touch no mind, but her eyes found his again. Instead of sparking with life, they were dull and afraid. "I have to go, I _can't_ – I'm sorry –"

The old man, who had not noticed she did not follow him until she spoke, turned around and walked back, spry on his feet for all his years. His voice was thick and wise. "Child, we cannot delay, there will be more –"

"I _know_," she said, and oh how her voice trembled.

Brynjolf pulled her closer, that hold on her arm like iron now, and he looked down into her pale, dirty face. Her eyes never left his. She never wavered. There was something in those eyes, something brave and foolish and _dangerous_ –

"What have you gotten yourself into, lass?" he asked, keeping his voice a low murmur. She leaned into him a moment, swaying on her feet. A deep breath shuddered through her, but she gave no answer. So, he pressed. "Is it something to do with this, then?" was his next careful question, and he let go her arm to gently touch the length of frostbitten blue linen that draped over her shoulder.

She laughed then, quick and short and pained. "No, it has nothing to do with this," she said with a shake of her head, and some of the steel that he'd seen before came back into her shoulders and her spine, and she was once again steady on her own two feet. She put her hand over his, fingertips like ice, and the skin of his arm began to prickle. "_This _is my luck," she said simply, as if he were meant to understand. And perhaps he did.

"Who _are _you?" he asked, as her fingers curled around his and the blue of Ulfric's cause was forgotten.

"Nobody," she said far too quickly and in doing so betrayed herself as _somebody_. It was difficult, later on, to think of himself as innocent in that moment. _Ignorant._ It was true what they said, he'd realized in hindsight, it was true what they said about ignorance and bliss.

Bliss, however, was often overvalued.

It was the old man's voice that broke the spell. Esbern, the strangest and scarcest of all the vermin in the Ratway. "We must _hurry_, child. The Thalmor –"

"Talos take them all," the girl swore under her breath as she untangled her fingers from Brynjolf's, the span of her hand so small but her strength remarkable. An archer's hand. He let her go only because he knew he must, there in the shadow and gloom, in that moment that lingered somewhere between his world and whatever lay ahead in hers. That knotting of instinct in his gut was slowly turning to stone, dead cold and dead heavy. For all his hoping, he had already lost her.

"I have to go," she said, though she needn't have, and knew it. It was written all over here face, there in her downcast eyes, the sorry little twist of her mouth. She tried to smile; it was a tremulous thing. "It's been –" She paused, as if she had all the time in the world to search for the right word.

"_Interesting_?" Brynjolf offered, and the smile that brightened her face then was the truest he'd ever seen. "If you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me," he said. She gave a solemn nod at his sentiment, and he wondered absently if she believed him, because he meant it wholeheartedly. Forget favours, trades, and deals. He would spare nothing to help her again, if only she would ask.

"Thank you for everything," she said, remembering her courtesies even when she was covered in blood. Beneath that Stormcloak blue, a proper lady. And then – and then she turned on her heel, ready to walk out of his life. The old man was near to shaking with relief, reaching out an arm for her to _hurry, hurry_.

She made it all of five paces before she stopped again. She cast a glance back over her shoulder, chewing on her lip as if she were trying to come to some sort of conclusion. Whatever her decision in the end, she made it fast. There was determination in her face and purpose in her step as she walked back to him.

Brynjolf grinned down at her, disappointed in himself at how relieved he was that she'd looked back.

"I believe this is supposed to be farewell, lass," he said in a low whisper.

She did not answer him – at least, not with even the simplest of words. Instead, she all but seized him by the belts that crisscrossed over his armour. She did not _pull _him, though he'd have gladly gone, but pushed herself up on her toes, kissing him firmly and fiercely. His smile did not die, it curled against her lips as he slid a hand around the back of her neck, holding her tight in this moment destined not to last. She tasted of salt and of blood, and when she pulled away, she sighed wearily and leaned her forehead against his jaw.

"_Madeline_," she whispered into the apple of his throat, so softly he scarcely heard, "_my name is Madeline_."

And then she was gone again, leaving him feeling bereft of warmth and understanding. She didn't look back this time, but he watched for her regardless, shaking his head at the impossibility of it all even as the door to the Ratway closed.

_Good luck to you then, sweet Maddie, _he thought sadly to himself as the dull echo of the shut door sounded through the Flagon. _By the Eight, you're going to need it. _He shook his head again, mind on her kiss and the regret he had heard so plain in her voice as she'd shared her secret with him.

He didn't know then the trouble he'd brought down on the guild, _couldn't _know then that it would be months before he saw her again, and that when he did, everything he'd ever known and depended on would be spun dizzy and turned on its head.

Ignorance and bliss.

But that night, the night when the unseen threads had started to loosen in the long hidden seams, when Brynjolf had finally turned around, ready to head down into the Warrens himself to see what kind of damage the girl had truly wrought, he found himself face to face with Delvin Mallory.

"Well, well," said the old thief, his grizzled face split into a wide grin. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Aye, and you're unlike to see it again," Brynjolf said, trying his best to ignore Delvin's suggestive tone. He wasn't about to allow anything to sully the moment, even if it was already just a memory. "Isn't there something else you could be attending?"

Delvin laughed. "No, I think my attention is right where it needs to be."

Brynjolf couldn't help but smile at Delvin's taunting as he shouldered past him down the walkway. "You've got a lot of nerve, old man," he said, falling down into his chair and taking up his abandoned bottle of reserve. He lifted it and licked his lips – but then thought better of it, and placed the bottle back down on the table. Better to keep the taste of her on his lips a bit longer, as nothing else but his remembrance of her would last.

"And you've got too little, my friend," Delvin said, winking. "If you had nerve enough, that girl wouldn't be heading the wrong way just now."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Brynjolf. He was done making guesses for awhile. His gut and its feelings would just need to keep their silence a little longer. There would be time enough to sort it all out later, once he'd had some rest – and once his head had cleared, and his heart stopped its maddened pounding, once the taste of her had faded...

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. He was bone-tired, and the night was far from over. There was still the matter of the Thalmor in the Ratway – but the minutes had dragged on for far too long now, and it had become apparent to the dwindling number in the Flagon that no one else was coming out of there alive.

And in Brynjolf's experience, it was never prudent to put off cleaning up a mess like that.

Vekel had already roused Dirge out of bed, and the mercenary had the door to the tunnels wide open. Holding a torch aloft, he'd done little more than stick his head inside when he called out. "Bryn, you'd better come take a look at this."

It was more difficult than he'd expected to push himself from the chair again; fatigue, like an old and comfortable friend, is not easily banished once it makes its presence known. Once all the dust had settled, he wouldn't mind a long sleep. He hadn't been seeing much of late.

"Wait," Delvin said, and reached out an arm as Brynjolf walked past. "What's this, then?"

Quick-fingered, he plucked something from beneath the thick strapping that ran across Brynjolf's chest. It was a piece of paper, not tucked into a pouch or pocket, but slipped in underneath the belt, all but asking to be found. Delvin chuckled. "I think you could learn a lesson or two from that girl about causing a distraction."

Without waiting for an invitation, the old thief unfolded the paper and gave it a look over. "Well, well," he said quietly, "what do you think this means?"

Brynjolf snatched the folded note back. His heart froze at what he read.

"This can't be –"

"_Brynjolf._ Get over here."

He crushed the paper in his fist as he strode into the stone alcove where Vekel stood, now holding the torch for Dirge. The mercenary's hulking shadow could be seen just inside the short corridor that led into the cavernous vaults. Brynjolf took the torch from the barkeep and stepped inside.

The blast of cold air that hit him nearly stole the breath from his lungs; the smoke from the torch set his eyes to watering. His body in its bulky armour cast a sharp, leaping silhouette against the glistening brick walls. The lingering stench of rot and sewage enveloped him. But all these discomforts were forgotten when he saw what Dirge stood over.

It was the body of Gissur, the beggar.

Brynjolf's grip tightened on the crumpled note in his fist. He swore darkly, loudly, and it echoed off into nothingness in the still, empty vault. He thrust the torch at Dirge, who took it without question, his face passive and unreadable as he looked down at the sad form of one of their own. Brynjolf knelt down next to the body, his stomach turning over at sight of the old beggar's eye, now a bloody ruin where a single arrow had pierced him and put an end to his pathetic existence.

"I think we've finally found our rat," said Dirge, with a grim satisfaction.

"Aye," said Brynjolf. "Someone had better wake Mercer."

* * *

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**Author's Note II**: A quick secondary note. It was brought to my attention in a recent play-through that Brynjolf (and Delvin) hold to the Eight Divines. I made the appropriate edits to previous chapters.


	7. The Ever Aftermath

**Author's Note**: My apologies for the delay. Many kudos to my sister for letting me steal her internet. More notes at the end!

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* * *

**Borrowed Trouble**

**Chapter Seven: The Ever Aftermath**

* * *

While he'd never considered himself a sentimental man, and never a romantic by _any _stretch of the imagination, Brynjolf found himself looking back on his short time with Archer and that last endless night of sheer confusion with a fondness that bordered on affection; her, a whirlwind of a young lady bringing a world of trouble to his doorstep, and him, the willing victim, floundering in her wake.

And though he could honestly say he still marvelled at how she'd gotten herself tangled in guild business, and the chaotic way she'd untangled herself once more, how she'd walked away victorious, practically unscathed –

Awe. Now, that there was the appropriate phrase. As cautious and cynical as he was, he was in _awe_ of what had gone down under his very nose, and damned if he could figure out how it had even managed to _happen. _In the weeks that followed that collision of stars, he found little that would answer the questions he had been left with when she had slipped from his grasp.

The events of that night were still branded in his mind, and the guild business was the raw edge of it, and as the hours turned to days, to weeks, the girl drifted to the wayside, like the remnants of a dream he couldn't banish. She was the catalyst, the stone's drop, there and gone in a moment, but her ripples were far reaching, and went on, and on, and on.

He saw it all again, as if remembering for the first time, as if he'd just closed his eyes. The corpses in the Ratway, elves with their golden skin and gilt armour, sneering even in death; the beggar and his bloody eye; and a few lowlifes, the dregs of the Warrens, worthless, nameless souls who hadn't known they were picking the wrong fight. Clean kills, messy kills, blood spattered the walls, the stonework, the straw on the floor, glistening black as sin. Most of the bodies were cold, death's grip firm and final; the others, the ones found in the Ratway just outside the Flagon, were still warm, their eyes scarcely turned to glass.

He remembered Dirge and the weary sigh he'd given as the count grew higher, the night not yet over and too much work left to be done. Delvin shaking his head and sifting through pockets, claiming with interest that the girl hadn't touched them, that all their gold and personal effects were still intact.

And Mercer, his face shadowed as oblivion, silently thinking and waiting to act. Their master thief, working ever and always on the benefit of the guild, trying to keep one step ahead of a world that never stopped moving on. The guild master had yet to speak to Brynjolf again about the girl, and his role in bringing her into their home. Then again, there wasn't much to say.

The girl was not who she claimed to be. Then again, she hadn't claimed all that much to begin with, had she?

It would seem that Delvin had been right after all. For all his fierce pride, Brynjolf still had a few tricks left to learn, and it appeared that there was a thing or two the girl could teach him.

It was too bad she'd vanished into thin air. None of the guards had seen her escape the Ratway with her precious cargo struggling to keep up. The good townsfolk of Riften were of no help, asleep in their beds at that midnight hour like decent, law-abiding citizens should be. No one remembered seeing her in the market. Keerava only shrugged him off, high and mighty as ever. Archer who?

He'd never imagined all the years he'd spent putting pressure on the population of Riften to look the other way would come back to bite him on the ass. No one had seen her leave the city. He couldn't even ascertain what gate she'd used to skip town. The guards had been _elsewhere_ during those lost hours – Maven's doing, undoubtedly.

To track Archer down now would take gold and resources – both of which were in damnably short supply. There was also business as usual to consider, for his guild was a temperamental mistress, demanding, wearying, and a great tease with her favours. Loyalty and commitment were his bottom line, and he could not go chasing after a girl he'd known for only a day, not on a whim, not for anything.

And so Brynjolf was forced to face the truth. Archer was gone. This, he could accept. What he found far more difficult to come to terms with was the fact that somehow she'd stolen his thoughts – and his heart – away from him, and that when she'd left him in the cold shadows of the Flagon after only a single day, she'd managed to take what remained of his luck along with her.

* * *

...

* * *

Two weeks after the incident with the Thalmor in the Ratway – as it was now known, common knowledge among the guards and the tavern patrons, a tale that seemed to grow in the retelling – Brynjolf once more found himself in the marketplace. However, he was not there to sell tonics or tinctures, nor was he there to play the crowd and keep an ear out for news.

Much to his personal regret and great dismay, he was there to finish shutting up his stand. This time, it was for good.

Around him, the market was busy in the crisp, cold afternoon. The month of Heartfire was rapidly coming to a close, and it was preparing to whisk the autumn away with it. Every morning there was frost on the grass in the temple courtyard, and the winds coming in off the lake turned sharp and icy, ready to take a bite out of the unwary and under-dressed. Most of the trees were bare now, skeletal sentinels braced against the sky. The Rift could brave the cold for a while and cling to autumn's fleeting beauty, but there was no escaping the fate of the seasons. The dark storm clouds over the mountains promised snow; a shift in the winds could change everything. Winter was truly on its way.

That day, however, held no promise, only miserable damp and a bitter chill. Brynjolf did not like the quiet, lonely pall that had fallen over the plaza since he'd last stood there, selling his false tonics and brokering what deals he could. The arrest of Brand-Shei and Brynjolf's own sudden departure from day-to-day trade had everyone rattled, on edge. No one had approached him in the scarce hour he'd been topside, but he could feel a half-dozen sets of eyes burning into his back, and the air around him was thick with curiosity and unasked questions.

Just when he'd nearly finished, a slender shadow finally fell across his back. _Now there's a brave fool,_ he thought to himself, smirking as he stood and turned. His smirk faded and he forced himself to smile as he came face to face with a very unhappy looking Ingun Black-Briar.

"Something I can help you with, lass?" he asked, taking in her frown, the flush of her cheeks, those careful dark eyes.

"Grandmother said this morning that there would be one less fool merchant in the marketplace," she said sadly. "I had hoped she meant that loudmouth Argonian."

Brynjolf found himself hard-pressed to keep on smiling, and the effort of it made his jaw hurt. He'd used the jeweller as a pawn in his scheme to oust Brand-Shei. It had been meant as a warning. Now there he was, packing up his stand while the Argonian looked smugly on from across the plaza, calling out to the patrons and boasting of the quality of his craftsmanship, the gleam of his gemstones. Rubbish, all of it.

"I am sorry to see that you're closing up shop," said Ingun, but her eyes sparkled with interest. "I quite enjoyed hearing the reactions you witnessed. Did any of the last elixir sell at all? Did anyone sample it?"

He thought on the potions he'd tried to hawk while Archer crept close enough to Brand-Shei to slip her fingers into his pocket. He'd upended the lot in the cistern, where it had frothed and bubbled as it hit the cold, murky water. "I'd steer clear of that particular concoction again, if I were you," he said, not unkindly. Despite the touch-and-go quality of her work, he would miss this chance partnership, and her daily visits.

"You might have told me sooner you were planning this," she said, pulling her head from the clouds and in that moment, he saw the thorny gnarl of the Black-Briars in her, and he didn't know whether to be proud or frightened. "I had a new batch ready for you. What a waste. All that deathbell nectar..."

Brynjolf frowned. It came as no surprise to him that Maven and Mercer had laid the blame for this at his feet. Just as he had subtly warned the Argonian, Brynjolf was now being reminded of his place in the scheme of things. His own fault, really. A man should never forget his place in the world, as it caused him to make sloppy mistakes, damage that could not be repaired. He of all people should have remembered that.

And so without a single falter to his smile, Brynjolf picked up their lie as easily as if he'd told it himself, ignoring how cowardly it tasted as he said, "This little venture of ours has grown stale of late. People are becoming suspicious. A good merchant knows when he has overstayed his welcome."

"A Black-Briar is always welcome," she said coldly, pursing her lips to a thin line. "And you're no merchant."

"Aye," he said, "and I'm no Black-Briar, either."

She chewed on his response for a moment, and looked as though she might spit something back at him that he'd regret hearing. There were some burdens that a man did not want on his conscience, and many, many times it concerned the trembling puppy eyes of a young girl who didn't know just what she was getting into. He held up a hand before she had a chance to respond to him, all the better for both of them.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, lass –"

"I know, I know," said little Ingun Black-Briar, "you've got important things to do." She left him to it, turning on her heel and all but storming off toward the rickety stairs that led down into the canal and her refuge at the alchemist's shop. There was no doubt in his mind that they would never again have the opportunity to speak on such open terms. With that, he was fine. All the better, he kept telling himself. All the better.

He finished his work quickly after that, in a hurry to get back to the darkness and solitude of the cistern. The confrontation with Ingun only signified one thing: life truly was getting back to normal. Business as usual. Which meant that he'd be hearing from Maven again very, very soon.

His suspicions were quickly confirmed. It was later that same afternoon when he was finally called up to the Bee and Barb to meet with Maven where she held court on the second floor, sitting higher than the Jarl herself. He didn't do her the disservice of making her wait. Something like this was best done quickly – and with as little pain as possible.

He had never liked Maven, her ambition painted so boldly all over her bony face, those eyes hard and cold as iron. She flicked them over him now as he went against protocol and pulled up a chair to sit in front of her. Always ready to give her a little push, a challenge. She liked backbone, and so he gave it to her in spades. There was nothing quite so satisfying as the curl of her lip at his lazy disrespect.

Let Mercer be the straight-laced businessman. His tightfisted reign had kept them afloat when trouble and tragedy always seemed a heartbeat away from swamping them. That, however, was Mercer. Brynjolf had never gotten things done that way.

For all the good it had done him.

"Maven," he said with a wolfish grin as he lounged back a bit in the chair, the full effect of his charm. Always his weapon, always his shield. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."

"I don't doubt you hoped I had," said Maven. "I understand that I have you to thank for that debacle in the Ratway."

Brynjolf smirked. "Oh, I won't take as much credit as all that. The girl would have found her own way down there even without my help. The Ratway is hardly a secret, and there are too many loose tongues in Riften to pass it along."

"That is _your _concern, not mine. I know how to deal with loose tongues," she said, levelling him with that contemptuous glare. "I suggest you learn the same."

"You wound me, Maven," he said. "Our friend in the marketplace has learned his lesson, hasn't he?"

"He has, and will continue to do so," Maven said, frowning. "His empty stall should be reminder enough to the others."

Brynjolf said nothing to this, knowing full well that a few shopkeepers in Riften were well beyond the reach of such subtle messages, but that was guild business, and none of Maven's. His silence said more than enough to Maven, however, because she crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair – but if she relaxed in the slightest, Brynjolf couldn't tell.

"I want to know more about this girl from the embassy who has everything in an uproar," Maven demanded coolly. "Elenwen has no sense. I knew there was something _off_ about her the very moment I saw her. A wispy thing, wasn't she? Dark-haired, impish?"

Brynjolf chuckled at _impish_. After the carnage in the Ratway, how could he not?

"Aye, that's her," he said. "Said her name was Archer."

Maven sniffed disapprovingly. "Mercer had absolutely nothing to give me. I find it hard to believe he never bothered to meet her down in your –" and here she paused, and her lip curled, "– your _guild hall._"

"Mercer's a busy man," Brynjolf said, raising an eyebrow. "He doesn't usually make it a point to meet with potential recruits."

"A pity," said Maven, still with her obvious sneer. Again, Brynjolf held his tongue. He full well knew that while she maintained this charade of cool logic and ruthless business sense, Maven had no idea of what went on in her brewery and warehouses most of the time. The men and mer under her employ were far beneath her notice, unworthy of remembering. She only learned the names of those who crossed her – and those, she never forgot.

But when it became clear to her that he was not going to fall all over himself to give her the answers she sought, Maven was forced to ask for them. Brynjolf had never been in the business of giving away information for free, and bringing Maven low, even if only a little, brought him a pleasure he rarely found anywhere else.

"And what, precisely, were you hiding in the Ratway that brought both this girl and the Thalmor –"

Brynjolf shook his head. "It was one of our tenants. An old man. I don't know more than that. Maybe it was something he did. Maybe it was something he had." He'd seen with his own eyes the mess the Thalmor had left the old man's hideout in. Whatever they had been looking for, he'd gotten away clean with it. There was nothing of importance on any of the bodies they found.

Maven snorted her disbelief. "You couldn't track them?"

"Oh, they're in the wind now," he said, and shrugged. "No one saw them leave. Guards were scarce on the gates that night. That was your doing, I believe."

"Yes, well," Maven said slowly, "you certainly made a mess of my explicit instructions."

Brynjolf remembered her instructions far too well. "If the order had come down sooner, we would have stopped the girl from interfering. It was all out of my hands after that." Speaking to Maven about Archer bothered him more than he cared to admit, and so he stood, wanting to put an end to it. "Was there anything else?"

Maven's lips twisted in displeasure, but she did not chastise him for his abrupt and rude behaviour. Just as well, as his pride was stinging, and his patience for her conceit was wearing thin.

"Tell Mercer I want a closer eye kept on Goldenglow," she said. "That elf is up to something and I want to know what it is."

"Mercer's already looking into it," he said – a bold faced lie. Though late, Aringoth's last payment had arrived in full, and Mercer had already all but dismissed it as one more of Maven's overzealous reactions to competition. "Now, if we're done, there are some things I need to take care of."

Maven nodded, magnanimous, and he turned and began to walk away.

He should have known it would not be as easy as all that.

"I don't want to see her back here, Brynjolf," Maven said to his back. He glanced over his shoulder to see her smiling at him. A smile from Maven was a terrifying thing. "If she returns, I will hand her over to Elenwen and the Dominion without a second thought. I don't want that kind of trouble in my city. I hope we understand one another."

"Perfectly," he said, and left it at that. He felt his face flush hot with anger. He swore under his breath all the way down the stairs and out the doors into the glare of the setting sun.

He stood in front of the Bee and Barb for a moment, leaning against the rail and taking the crisp late autumn air into his lungs. Maven's last threat echoed in his head, and he ran a hand down over his face as if he could wipe it all away. Meetings such as the one he'd just escaped were too gods-damned wearying. He always, _always _preferred to have the upper-hand when dealing with clients. It was the only way to keep things running smooth – and it was why he hated dealing with Maven Black-Briar. She had gotten all this information from Mercer weeks ago when the bodies of the Thalmor agents were barely cold, and yet now she continued to grill him, looking for cracks in the story, a way to turn it all to her advantage, stay a step ahead.

He knew he had nothing to worry about. While Maven's interests might lay with the empire, she was loyal only to herself. Riften and the guild benefited from that, and neither Maven nor Mercer would do anything to jeopardize the balance. Still, her suspicion and her arrogance were a tiresome burden to bear because of it, and it seemed that Mercer had thrown Brynjolf under her fire for no other purpose than to watch him burn.

One thing remained clear to him: he would not make the mistake of handing Archer over again – though, in the end, even his blundering error in judgement had not been enough to hinder the girl in her quest. He could not have stopped her had he wanted to – and aye, it was undeniable that he _had _wanted to. She was something special, and he wanted to bring her into the fold. For the sake of the guild, his own personal reasons be damned. And he had known that whatever, _whoever_ she sought deep in the Warrens, it would only serve to take her out of Riften again, away from his influence and his reach.

Brynjolf was not in the habit of allowing himself to hope, that most foolish and insatiable of desires, but now he found himself hoping, and dearly, that whatever path Archer's feet were leading her down would someday cross with his once again. He'd had a feeling about the girl the moment he laid eyes on her, and this was his strongest remembrance of their short time together. A feeling that could not be ignored, nor dismissed. A feeling that had not gone away.

Sighing, he cursed at his own foolishness and pushed himself away from the rail. Wanting, hoping, these were not the trademarks of a practised thief. His heart was not made for pining. Where was the thrill in it? With no tangible prize to covet, with no foreseeable payoff, he could not force himself to waste his days when there were still jobs to be lined up, clients to be dealt with, loot to be claimed.

That was what a thief did. He _took, _and then he prepared for his next mark. And if there was nothing to take that he wanted, then he waited. Because a thief was nothing if he was not patient, and Brynjolf prided himself to be among the best in his trade.

He could wait for Archer. One way or another, she would come to him again.

He just... had a feeling.

**The End  
**

**To be Continued in  
**_"Archer's Paradox: The Fortunate Favourite"_

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**Author's Note II**: I'm no good at final author notes, but I always want to start with a ridiculously large thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and subscribed. Keep an eye open for the next story in the series, "The Fortunate Favourite". The title is a little reference from one of my favourite books from my childhood. Maybe you can guess! It's also a reference to the way I am going to write this series - a little out of order.

Thank you again for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!


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